


A Faded Companion

by AntlersandFangs, Celtic_Lass



Series: Virtually Faded Universe [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ART!!!, Companion POV, Modern Girl in Thedas, Outsiders POV, POV Minor Character, Thedas elves, in game racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2020-10-18 17:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20643338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntlersandFangs/pseuds/AntlersandFangs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celtic_Lass/pseuds/Celtic_Lass
Summary: a collection of companion pieces to Virtually Faded, all from different points of view or happenings that didn't make it into the main storyCompanion to Virtually Faded





	1. What We Do for Family

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning for implied possible dubious consent

I had been lucky to find a job with the Inquisition. It was hard for an elf to find work, harder still for one with the vallaslin still raw on her face, her barefaced younger sister and surly older brother in tow. We had been trying to find a clan to take her in when the sky had torn apart. After that, it was a scramble to survive as shemlen mages and templars tore each other apart and anything that got in their path. The Dalish clans all but disappeared and it was many a hungry night before we heard word that there was work in Haven. 

At first we were hesitant to believe it. ‘Inquisition welcomes everyone’ was parroted by every scout and merchant they ran into on the road. Belraj called it halla shit for the first few weeks, but after running into one group of elven scouts, he and I had to agree it was probably our best option. None of us were particularly good hunters: I was the smith’s apprentice, Belraj had mostly gathered herbs and fruits, and Leal, our younger sister, had helped the healer of the clan make potions.

By they time we struggled our way there through the war torn lands, Haven had been buried under the snow, and we luckily managed to attach ourselves to the tail end of the caravan making their way to the Inquisition’s new holdings. We fell in with the elven servant staff, quietly trying to integrate ourselves and earn our place at the mess lines. Belraj mostly earned us our place by using his gathering skills to add to the bland meals. The other elves let us in easily enough, no more than a few uneasy glances at my face and a scuffle when my brother refused to let a shemlen servant shove him out of line. I found myself shocked and relieved when the spymaster reprimanded the shemlen and reminded him of ‘the ideals of the Inquisition’, and then offered my brother a job as a scout. I didn't really believe it, figured they were just posturing at first. Shemlen didn’t normally treat elves with anything but disdain. Or obsession. 

Everyone had heard the rumors. The ‘Herald’ and the Inquisitor took on an elven mistress not two weeks after the breach had been stabilized. Some said that the elf had already been pregnant by someone else, some said the Inquisitor had prior relations with her. I’d seen the brute of a man from some distance though, and I didn’t believe Qunari could interbreed with elves, but that didn't stop people from talking. 

The human ‘Herald’ was a strange one. I had just gotten work with the kitchen help when I first saw her. She smiled at everyone, helped clear her own dishes where the other humans left them out for the staff to gather. She was obviously taken up with the elven mage that they had taken as a companion, despite her relationship with the Inquisitor. Once, she entered the dining hall brazenly wearing the elf’s shirt, greeting the IInquisitor without a shred of shame. And he had looked delighted. They were a strange pair. 

The pay was decent and we managed well enough as the Inquisition established itself in Skyhold. Well enough until I found Leal sitting on my bed, sobbing. She was pregnant by one of the spymaster’s scouts who had perished in a skirmish with the Avvar. She was without a protector, a husband, an elf without a clan, and a mage without a Keeper. If something happened to us, something all too likely with the war, there would be no one to care for the child. My mind raced on how to deal with it, Belraj was gone on an assignment from the spymaster so there was no one else to discuss it with, but when I offered to buy some witherstalk, Leal fixed me with a determined, if teary, expression. 

“There are few enough true elves in the world.”

It was true, but all I could think of were hungry futures. It was late into the night when she spoke again. “Have you heard of Frya?”

I nodded. By this time she had heard of everything, of the elf, Frya the mistress, of how the Inquisitor and Herald had taken her into their home and after her death had kept her child as their own. When it had come out with pointed ears it was obvious to everyone that it was not the Inquisitor’s child. Everyone knew of the Inquisitor and Herald’s ‘collection’, the rumors of how they went from room to room. It didn’t take a genius to put the situation together. And the elf child was the best cared for child in Skyhold with the most powerful people in Thedas doting over and protecting him. 

It was not uncommon to attach yourself to a noble, but it was uncommon to find one willing to care for any bastard children left behind, especially ones not their own. 

“I can-”

I stopped her, knowing exactly where her mind was going, mine was in the same place, though I had to swallow back the bile that rose up in my throat. “No. I’ll do it. It’s my job to look out for us.” My sister was still barefaced, still a child really. Without our clan, I was the stand in for Keeper.

I thought over what I knew of Frya and the Shemlen. Frya was said to be a red headed flat ear who cooked and cleaned, and the Herald’s new fancy was another red headed flat ear who was an expert in magic. I was no flat ear, but I had red hair and the points on my ears that some shemlen seemed to obsess ove r. 

“I’m the one with red hair.” I pressed a kiss to her dark hair and went to wash my face. And then I went to work.

I took some time to observe the Inquisitor and Herald. While I would have much preferred to go after the  Herald, her small size and friendly smiles were less intimidating than the Inquisitor’s brutish size and hard eyes, she seemed completely enamoured by her flat ear mage. I’d have to gather my courage and get near the qunari man then. The pair of them seemed to be having some sort of fight. The Herald and Inquisitor seemed to be avoiding each other, giving strained smiles and sad looks when they did meet to care for the elf child or talk to the red haired flat ear. Everyone had heard of the fight the pair had had when she had returned from the dead, but no one was entirely sure what it had been about. It was the perfect time to approach the Inquisitor: a friendly face would be welcome with his lovers angry at each other. 

It was not as difficult as I thought it would be to get myself assigned to cleaning the Inquisitor’s quarters. I had already proven myself to be silent and trustworthy and my brother was building a solid reputation as a scout. After that, it was a matter of catching the Inquisitor in his rooms. He seemed to be up at odd hours, working in the War Room or in the Commander’s office, racing from task to task and hardly ever entering his rooms to rest. 

My sister was beginning to show when I finally had my chance. The Inquisitor was in his quarters when I went to clean, the massive man slumped over his desk in a clutter of papers, asleep. I found myself anxious as I quietly approached him, hoping he wasn't drunk, my hand shook as I gently touched his shoulder, intending to help him to bed. A helpful face when a man was sleepy was often the best approach. 

But the second my fingers touched his skin he exploded in a blur of motion and I found myself on my knees by his chair, his hand gripping my jaw tight enough to bruise and a knife at my throat. I had the sudden, terrifying realization that my entire skull could fit in his massive hands.

He blinked and his face and his grip on my face loosened momentarily. “Frya?” His voice cracked and then he shook his head like a dog shaking off water and the knife pressed against my neck hard enough to split the skin. “What are you doing in here?” This close I saw that his eyes were different colors and that they were hard as ice.

“I- I’m the serv- I clean your quarters, my lord!” I gasped out, not even having to fake the tremble in my voice as my heart pounding in my ears. I had never been this terrified before, not when slavers killed our parents, not when we were thrown out of the clan, not even when the sky had torn open.

His pale eyes flicked over my face and his black lips curled slightly, revealing a glimpse of sharp canines. “What were you going to do? Why did you touch me?”

I couldn’t help a whimper and reflexively put my hands around the wrist with the knife. Both of my hands couldn’t even encircle the massive limb. I had no chance of keeping him from cutting my throat but the instinct to try was too strong to deny. “You were asleep, I was to help you to bed.” 

His eyes narrowed. “Who sent you?”

“N-No one!” I had not even thought of the risk of assassins that he faced. Foolish, foolish girl. 

The enormous man let out a heavy breath and let go of me and I fell back against the floor, scrambling away as fast as I could until my back hit the bed. Standing, he sheathed his knife. I could feel my own breath rattling in my chest in a tight knot of fear as he scrubbed his face with is massive hands. He looked down at me with an almost apologetic expression before it was gone, replaced with a furrow between his brows. “What do you want?”

I started to shake my head, at that moment, all I wanted was to escape. It had been a stupid plan, one that almost had gotten me killed but he bared his teeth again and spoke through gritted teeth.

“Tell me. What do you want?”

I shuddered at the insistence in his voice and found my words spilling away from me. “My sister is with child.”

He rolled his hand so I kept going. I felt like I couldn’t help my voice. “It’s a bastard, we have no clan to care for it if something happens to us.”

The Inquisitor sat on his chair with his hands between his knees. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Everyone-” I swallowed, fearing his reaction to the truth, but unable to stay silent. “Everyone knows how you cared for Frya and her child, my lord.”

He suddenly looked exhausted, stress lining his face and the slump of his massive shoulders. “So you were going to try and- get close to me?” He shook his head and I felt my stomach sink. I had worse than failed. What if he sent us out of Skyhold? What if he punished me for my presumption? Oh, Mythal's mercy what have I done?

“Forgive-”

“No, you’re doing the best you can in a shitty situation.” He ran a hand over his face and sighed. “Bring your sister up tomorrow so I can meet her. We’ll all sit down and talk this out. Y’all can name me godfather or whatever.”

I felt my heart still at the unexpected words. Was he taking my offer? I thanked all the Creators for this small blessing before steeling myself for what I had to do next. It shouldn’t be that bad, I reasoned with myself, he was kind, at least. I hesitantly moved towards him but he shook his head. 

“I don’t want anything from you. You have a kid that needs security, I happen to have the means to provide it. It’s fine.” He frowned at me for a moment before smiling softly. “Frya wasn’t my mistress. She was our friend.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Just like that? He was willing to promise to care for a stranger’s child just like that? An elf’s child? My confusion must have been obvious because he gave me a weak half smile. 

“Us non-human’s gotta look out for each other. Go on, get some rest. Bring your sister to meet me after I’ve gotten some sleep. And… don’t come into my room when I’m in here.” His face darkened. “It’s not safe.” 

I touched the bleeding line on my neck and nodded frantically, backing towards the stairs to escape. The last glimpse of him that I caught before I raced down the stairs was of him sitting heavily on the edge of his bed with his wrist clutched tightly in his hand. He looked impossibly sad. I slipped out of the door and leaned against it, ignoring the guard’s curious gaze in order to catch my breath and slow my racing heart. Thought my heart was lighter than it had been in weeks.

The man was terrifying, the skin memory of his fingers against my jaw harsh and lingering. But yet, I had seen those hands carry the tiny elf child with the utmost gentleness. I’d seen him be kind, even when it would be better not to be. Frightening or not, he would be a good guardian for Leal’s child if worse came to worst. 

It was only a week after that I was approached by Ilaan, the elf who ran the kitchens. I couldn't believe what she told me at first but as I thought about it, it made sense. Fen'harel had returned and he was going to restore the elves. I pledged myself to his cause and Ilaan gave me a bracelet with six red beads woven into the thread. I was now an agent of Fen’harel.


	2. Needed

He had heard much about the Herald and the Inquisitor. He was skeptical, as any sane person should be. The stories circulating the pair were nigh on ridiculous. So when Hawke said she was bringing the pair to him to help, he had certain expectations. The woman chosen by Andraste, the one rumored to have the Sight of the future and past and to have become a mage late in life, he expected her to be a spoiled noble daughter taking advantage of circumstance or peasant more devout than sensible. The Inquisitor he expected to be an average warrior making the best of a situation. He would bet that the pair really were lovers as rumors claimed. 

He spent the wait for them clearing out the area of bandits and avoiding his fellow Wardens. He stayed alert the whole time, the Calling and strain of being hunted again wearing on him. When he heard footsteps entering his hideout he did not hesitate to pull his sword on the first figure through. 

It was a massive qunari, one of the biggest he had ever seen, with thick horns curling around his head and skin the color of tar. The man drew his ax but kept it hanging loose, ready to attack but first waiting to see what he would do. The qunari’s mismatched and pale eyes studied him intently, curious and with the air of a man who fully believed he was capable of winning if it came to a fight. 

Hawke hurried forward to defuse the situation, and Loghain had barely had time to hide his relief and sheathe his sword when a child stepped into the cavern and blasted him with magic, throwing him against the wall. 

Hawke and Varric rushed to help him up, but the qunari simply asked the child what he had done. He found it interesting that the qunari’s posture changed from open caution to closed off contempt before he had even introduced himself. 

The girl declared he ‘wouldn’t be a problem’ and that they had to work with him, and Loghain wondered why they listened to her. That tiny, impulsive slip of a woman was no more the Chosen than he was. And he said as much, accusing her of being a fraud. The child spat his secrets back at him as if they were as cutting as her pretty and most likely useless daggers hanging from her belt. The Seeker they had brought was offended, and the qunari gestured to the elven apostate to apparently hold the girl back as if she was a danger to him. 

He didn’t know how she knew of this, if she knew, who else knew? But then the qunari and the supposed Herald were gesturing at each other with their hands and Hawke claimed that they were talking to each other. But the qunari, apparently the Inquisitor, seemed determined to get this disaster of a meeting over with and steered them back to the reason they were all gathered in this dismal cavern. 

Loghain had considered what the man might want to know and had done his best to prepare answers, but the Inquisitor had far fewer questions than he would have expected and sometimes it seemed as if he already knew what was going on. A guess proven right when he challenged the prophet again and she threw the words he had yet to say out for all to hear, and then to claim she already knew what was becoming of his fellow wardens. 

It felt like a stab to the gut, that she claimed to know and had done nothing. He said as much and she said, “The Wardens were already under Corypheus’ influence before I… I might not like you, but you are needed.”

The phrase stuck in his mind, even after her casual prophecy about men not yet captured that made the Inquisitor alter his plans on her word alone. Neither of them seemed to be devout, but everyone in the room except for him seemed to believe the girl’s words without hesitation. Even Hawke, who he had had enough dealings with to know that she wasn’t easily fooled. There had to be something to her, some magic, but…

“I might not like you, but you are needed.” The way she had said that…

He found himself waiting near one of the Inquisition scouting camps. They talked a lot. He heard of much of what went on in the Inquisition, but that phrase kept ringing in his head. “I might not like you, but you are needed.” The soldiers in the Fallow Mire had been found and rescued, just as the girl had said. She had also apparently somehow passed on her magic to the Inquisitor for a battle and he was now being hailed as the Champion of the Herald. One of the scouts called him the Champion of Andraste and the lead scout had scolded him and reminded him it was specifically “of the Herald”.

Finally, word reached him that the Inquisitor was nearing and he set off to wait at the Ritual Tower. He could hear the crackle of strange magic and the screams of dying men, but he refused to risk himself by running in by himself to see what was going on. He could guess what the Herald had meant by ‘sacrifices’ and he refused to be more fuel for Corypheus’ army. 

He stayed close to the wall as the Inquisitor and his inner circle approached. He doubted that they had brought their precious prophet to a battle, but if they had for some reason, he would rather have a shorter distance to be thrown. 

They had indeed brought their Herald but although her eyes flashed at him, she cast no magic. He couldn’t help but eye her warily. She was carrying a bow but no arrows, and had her daggers, but carried herself as a nervous recruit. He was glad that they had taken her arrows, he was not overly fond of accidental wounds from allies. 

After the briefest exchange of words, the Inquisitor gave a sharp nod and the odd group fell into position as if it were second nature. He met eyes with a familiar elf assassin, one he couldn’t place beyond a nagging sense that they had met before. They exchanged brief nods, and then they ignored each other. There was a gap in the guard and he fit into it easily. They normally fought with another warrior who wasn’t here. They marched straight into the tower and before he even had a chance to observe where the threats were, the Herald aimed her empty bow and somehow killed a Warden mage. 

Everyone froze. The inner circle looked shocked by her act of violence and it wasn’t until she somehow shot another warden through the head with her arrowless bow did they spring into action. The battle was brief and fierce and he found a part of himself admired the ruthless efficiency of the odd group. The Inquisitor carved a path through the fray and Loghain found himself without a demon to fight shortly. 

There was only one Warden left, but no one made a move to attack him. Instead, they cast him sympathetic glances while the Herald stomped her foot and spat epithets about losing someone and then revealed she knew where he would be and had already sent orders for troops to the place. 

Loghain saw the Inquisitor slip away as his followers started dealing with the bodies, all of them casting the girl anxious glances as if they had witnessed some great wrong. The elf apostate went to her side and started quietly murmuring in her ear. He found himself both unwilling to stay near the volatile Herald and brimming with questions. Why did everyone seem so shocked by the Herald’s violence? What all did she know? Was the Inquisitor actually a believer? Where did they learn to fight as they did? Where were they from? 

He followed the Inquisitor, ignoring the Seeker’s dark glare. He was too used to foul looks to be bothered by hers. He found the Inquisitor leaned against the wall in a dark line of exhaustion. Apparently the man had expected the Seeker to find him. It made him wonder how often the brute of a man left a fight to be alone and the Seeker had gone to him. 

As soon as the Inquisitor discovered it was him, his posture changed from weariness to controlled politeness. He asked if Loghain needed something. Loghain tried to strike up a conversation, even made a joke when the man tried to deflect him back to the Herald, but the Inquisitor was determined to not have to deal with him despite his laugh. 

The boy laid out the reason, and of all the things spat at him, all of the accusations he deserved, the boy was most offended by the one that wasn’t true. It pricked at him, angered him enough that he blurted out the truth. He expected the brute to scoff and disbelieve him, but instead the man studied him with those unsettling mismatched eyes. He couldn’t have been more shocked when the Inquisitor crassly blurted out the truth of the matter. He was shocked enough that he confirmed it, had to stop himself from revealing more.

Then the qunari fixed him with those pale eyes and casually told of his meeting with Anora. It wasn’t flattering, but was said with a matter of factness that dulled the bite of the words. Whatever the man had been searching for, he found it in Loghain’s answer. He had passed whatever test and the man believed him. It was strange to be believed so easily.

They agreed to trade information, and again, the questions Loghain expected were not the ones asked of him. There were no accusations, no veiled insults, no hint at all that the boy expected him to lie. The boy’s first question was shocking, he’d somehow managed to have gone his entire life since meeting Maric without being asked that question. 

He asked the man about his origins, and instead of answering with where they were from, the man gave him information that told him nothing, then hinted that not even his own spymaster knew his secrets. The qunari was much more canny than his appearance suggested. Then he dropped the question most formed as an accusation.

And when Loghain answered, the boy looked through him and said the sum of his mistakes in a tone as if he were reciting a lesson. It struck at the heart of his regrets and he tried to force down his reaction, but then the boy apologized and offered him extra questions in some sort of effort to be nice, and the kindness threw open the gates of his temper. 

He spilled his regrets and pain and it wasn’t until he was staring at an incongruous tub of healing salve with blood dripping from his knuckles that he realized all he had given the man who lead an organization that worked on secrets.

As he sharpened his sword in the group’s camp that night, he kept wondering if the man was that skilled at worming information from people, if he had somehow fallen prey to Bardic techniques. Then Hawke asked about his hand and he asked her about the Inquisitor. She was impressed by him, had nothing but good things to say.

The Herald’s elf jumped in with agreement and a chilling explanation for why he had said so much. The Inquisitor had the ability to make people talk. The Inner Circle joined in and he found himself a little overwhelmed by the amount of non hostile attention directed at him as they shared their own experiences with the man. Even the Crow teased alongside him. It seemed as if the Inquisitor’s gift of the healing salve was proof enough to them that he was not a threat or monster.

Then the second qunari revealed that the Herald had been listening the entire time and he braced himself, fearing either another outburst, that it was a ploy to ‘play a trick’ on him, or maybe that the others would be berated for speaking so lightly of their commander. He tried to leave, but she excused herself instead after teasing and being teased in turn by the Inquisitor’s companions. Her eyes did not flash at any of them, and the ease with which they joked with her showed that not a one of them considered her a danger to them. 

The truth of a leader could be found by how their followers and companions spoke of them, how they acted around them. The Herald and Inquisitor were no Hero, were not cruel and power hungry. 

After she had gone, her elf looked at him and gave him a thin smile. “The Herald knows the what of matters, but the Inquisitor understands the why.” It was almost an apology. He didn’t know what to do with it. 

The other elf yelled out that supper was done, and the group headed for the main fire like a pack of puppies to the dinner bell and he was left alone. He would not be welcome at the fire. He had begun the process of breaking out his travel rations when heavy footsteps drew his attention to the Inquisitor. The man was barely visible in the dim light, only the shine of his hair and eyes giving him away, but his footsteps were purposefully heavy so as not to sneak up on him. 

“I brought you some, figured you wouldn’t feel like eating with us.” The man held out a small fabric wrapped bundle and Loghain took it reflexively. “If you feel like it, you can eat with us next time.”

Loghain watched the Inquisitor leave, feeling faintly stunned at both the thought and the invitation. It had been a long time since someone had been polite, let alone kind, once they knew who he was and what he had done. He unwrapped the fabric and found a toasted sandwich with melted cheese and some spice dusted on the bread. It was delicious and he began to understand why the Inquisitor’s companions had scurried to dinner so quickly. 

It wasn’t until he was alone in his tent that he realized the Inquisitor expected him to travel with them instead of sending him off to wait by himself again. It wasn’t until he was sitting in the back of the group and watching the Herald scrunch up her face and prophecy like a child reciting badly learned lessons that he realized that he intended to do so. 

The others listened intently, some asked for further details, and all seemed to accept that her prophecies were accurate enough to lay out battle plans on. All before they even set off to travel to this hidden temple she had Seen. They believed in her, even the ones not Andrastrian. 

As they saddled their mounts for the trip, the Inquisitor pressed another fabric wrapped bundle into his hands. “Missed you at breakfast today. Maybe next time, yeah?”

Loghain gave him a non committal nod and watched him leave before opening the bundle to find an ember baked potato with cheese and the same spice from last night stuffed between it’s halves. He had lain awake in his tent until the sounds of the morning meal had faded, pretending to sleep late as he was unwilling to attempt to join them for breakfast and then be driven off with jeers and maybe stones for daring to eat with non traitors. It had happened often in the early days and he had learned not to take invitations at face value. Which led to him riding at the back of the group, wondering why he was travelling with them simply because the boy expected him to. 

The Herald’s elf and Hawke made a concerted effort to include him into the group, but he could see the Herald’s eyes flash every time she glanced at him and he dared not risk her wrath. Her companions might not fear her, but they had not been attacked on sight by her, had not earned her anger. The rest of the companions were polite enough, but seemed willing enough to keep to themselves. A few times he caught sight of the Inquisitor angling his mount towards him and took care to slip away. He was not ready for another dose of the man’s abilities quite yet. 

The boy called an early halt in some strange manner of speaking that the girl had to translate. There was some story behind their words as the whole group had been apprehensive when Hawke had requested a word’s meaning. Loghain kept a respectful distance from her as she began her training with both the Iron Bull and the Crow. It was jarring to see the tiny, unscarred girl going toe to toe with an assassin and qunari warrior, her daggers flashing with fire and her eyes with magic as she practically danced around them. He spotted the Inquisitor leaning alone by the large boulder that marked their camp and wondered if he would be allowed to use the questions offered to him. Or if they would even be honored. But he needed to know what was to be done with his secrets so he approached the man in a show of casualness. 

He pointed out the girl’s weak points he had spotted, and instead of arguing or being suspicious of his motives, the Inquisitor had simply marked the openings with a sharp eye, and called out a string of words that made the girl correct herself. The Crow berated him for helping her, and the Inquisitor raised his hands in surrender and joked that he was a simpleton. Odd. 

The boy settled back to watch her training with a sad fondness gracing his dark features, and to Loghain’s astonishment, the massive warrior pulled a pair of knitting needles from his pack and began knitting what looked to be a chain of daisies. There was no indication he was not welcome, no discomfort, no questions or glances. They simply watched the Herald spar in silence and Loghain found himself actually enjoying the company. Or he would have if there was not still the lingering dread about the secrets spilled. 

He waited until the Herald had finished and wandered off with her elf before he asked if he still had his questions. The boy replied oddly, but he believed that he could understand the gist of it. One shoots a bow when ready, so maybe he was to ask when ready. A strangely winding path to communication, but it seemed he had reasoned correctly when he asked and the man answered. 

He began with simple enough questions that still revealed much of the pair. The Herald cared not for the Chantry’s politics, while the Inquisitor cared enough about them simply to foil them. The Inquisitor trusted the Herald’s elven lover, and grew visibly upset if he believed someone was looking down on them for race or magic. He was braced for another invasive and painful question, but the boy simply asked for confirmation about the existence of the Night Elves, which he was happy to provide. The qunari was very astute when it came to how the human race viewed him and the elves. 

And when it came down to it, the boy said he had no plans to spill his daughter’s ruin. It was not a promise or a no, but it was the best he would get, so he accepted it. He went to leave, but the Inquisitor invited him for supper again in a humorous manner. He agreed with the weight of the Inquisitor’s non answer hanging over his head. He could not avoid the fire forever it would seem. Though… the boy had been nothing but kind once he had known the truth of the matter. Maybe it would not be as bad as he feared. 

It wasn’t, though it did turn out to be awkward. Hawke’s dwarven friend was a masterful storyteller and the ‘french toast’ prepared by the Inquisitor was delicious. They allowed him to remain mostly silent, only addressing him to ask if he wanted more food or drink, but it felt like they were giving him his space rather than excluding him. Except for the Herald. She kept casting glowing glares in his direction.

The dwarf and the elf girl asked the Herald for one of her special stories and the girl’s eyes flashed when she bit out a short, “No.” 

The group looked shocked and the Seeker squared her shoulders and set her jaw as if she was preparing for a fight. “Warden Loghain. Everyone knows that you fought alongside King Maric during the liberation. Would you care to share some of your experiences?”

The Herald’s eyes flashed again, and Loghain held himself carefully still so he would not flinch when she shot to her feet. But she did not magically lash out at him or the others. Instead she stomped off to the tent that she shared with the elven apostate. 

The Inquisitor started to rise, but the Seeker made several sharp gestures with her hands and he sat back down to answer her in kind. The elven apostate made gestures of his own, and they replied. Loghain watched them with trepidation and fascination. They truly were conversing with their hands, but what were they saying? Finally the Seeker rolled her eyes and the apostate smirked as he stood and bid everyone goodnight so he could follow the Herald to her tent. 

The Inquisitor glanced at him and gave him a wry smile. “He’s gonna try to talk to her. She’s being ridiculous.”

“She knows what I have done more than anyone else. I do not begrudge her her anger.” He said quietly. She had Seen what he had done, she knew his secrets and mistakes. If the one who knew everything hated him so… He would fulfill his part in the future and hope to avoid her anger’s lash. He did not know what to do with the fact that they were upset with their prophet on his behalf. 

“I betrayed my country to save my mercenaries.” The grey qunari said nonchalantly as he stretched a leg out to the fire. 

“I am an assassin.” The Crow draped himself across both the Seeker and the Inquisitor’s laps. 

“I’m a Tevinter Altus fighting against my own countrymen.” The dark haired mage added. 

“I accidentally helped blow up a chantry and released Corypheus.” Hawke’s hands were clenched in her lap as she spoke. 

“I’m a writer.” The dwarf said seriously, as if it was a grave confession. 

His tone brought levity to the unexpected statements and Loghain snorted as the group laughed. Hawke sat up straight suddenly. “Damon! You have to sing for us!”

The boy snorted. “I thought we just did a round of ‘I don’t hate you’ confessions?”

“Yeah! And now you have to initiate him! Everyone who follows you into battle has to hear your horrifying songs at least once!” There was a round of voiced agreements at Hawke’s declaration and Loghain felt a ghost of an impulse to smile. 

“I would like to say I have heard the Inquisitor sing.”

The man threw up his hands in surrender. “Fine.” He thought for a moment before baring his fangs in a grin. “Here’s one.” He began singing in a deep, raspy voice that, although not conventionally pretty, was still interesting and not unpleasant. “Sah ein Mädchen ein Röslein stehen, Blühte dort in lichten Höhen, Sprach sie ihren Liebsten an, ob er es ihr steigen kann.” 

Loghain found the song strange but not horrifying. The words were in a language he did not recognize but yet sounded familiar. It brought to mind darkness and dust. 

“Sie will es und so ist es fein, So war es und so wird es immer sein, Sie will es und so ist es Brauch, Was sie will bekommt sie auch.” The Inquisitor’s eyes were half closed as he rumbled out the strange words. “Tiefe Brunnen muss man graben, wenn man klares Wasser will, Rosenrot oh Rosenrot, Tiefe Wasser sind nicht still.” 

His voice trailed off and there was a heavy moment of silence before the dwarf pinched the bridge of his nose. “Blot… How the fuck do you know Ancient Dwarven?”

Ah, that was why it sounded familiar. He had heard a shaper muttering something similar over an ancient text during one of his missions to the Deep Roads. 

“I don’t know Ancient Dwarven. I only know a few songs and phrases. Emma’s the one who can actually speak it.”

The Tevinter threw up his hands. “Of course she speaks Ancient Dwarva! Common, Antivan, elvish, and your language of signs weren’t enough apparently.”

“Do you know what the song means?” Loghain found himself more willing to speak up with the Herald’s menacing glow out of sight. 

The boy’s pale eyes fixed on him for a long moment before he sighed and closed his eyes. “A girl saw a little rose, It bloomed there in bright heights. She asked her sweetheart if he could fetch it for her. The boy climbs the mountain in torment, He doesn't really care about the view, Only the little rose is on his mind. He brings it to his sweetheart. At his boots, a stone breaks, Doesn't want to be on the cliff anymore, And a scream lets everyone know, Both are falling to the ground. She wants it and that's fine, So it was and so it will always be. She wants it and that's the custom: Whatever she wants she gets. Deep wells must be dug, if you want clear water. Rose-red, oh Rose-red, Deep waters don't run still.”

Loghain felt a pain in his chest at the translation. Whatever she wants she gets indeed. There was another long silence before Hawke snickered. “There. Now we’ve all endured his singing.”

“It isn’t bad.” Loghain scowled. It wasn’t bad, though the song was dark and painful.

“Never said his voice was bad. He just- listen, the first time he ever sang for us he sang about being possessed. Right after Haven was destroyed and the Herald had apparently come back from the dead.”

Hawke’s eyebrows flew up. “Woah. I just got a creepy lullaby about demons under the bed.” 

The Inquisitor rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss to the Seeker’s cheek before standing. “On that note, turn in y’all. Gonna be a hellofa fight t’morrow.” 

Loghain laid awake in his tent for a long time thinking over the days events, over the prophecies treated as fact, over the unexpected kindness of the Inquisitor. Over the complicated acceptance of the man’s followers. Over the songs sung in ancient languages by a boy with old eyes who bared his teeth in song and battle, who gave traitors hand wrapped meals and honest conversation and healing salves. Of the fact that even though he wanted and wished that the Herald was a fraud, he believed she truly had the Sight. 

“I don’t like you, but you are needed.” 

His stomach felt heavy as he considered the hidden meaning in those words. 

The pit in his stomach grew leaden as the morning unfolded. They packed up camp and travelled to the Temple, which was exactly where she said it would be. Once inside, they found things exactly as she had said they would be. And then, after they had done the task she had set, the demons and mages came to life, exactly as she had said. 

Everything, exactly as she said. 

“I don’t like you, but you are needed.”

He saw her flitting around the battlefield of the Silent Temple, a glowing, flickering whirlwind of destruction. He saw her leaving her left side open and he saw the Inquisitor take a glancing claw to the back when he missed a wraith moving in on him for searching out the Herald’s new position. 

He saw her flicker into existence a mere five paces from him and the terror that burst out of the ground and focused on her. It was on her left. Her silver eyes never glanced at it. 

The terror stepped towards her and Loghain felt the sudden weight of her words. "I might not like you, but you are needed." 

He wasn't one to believe in fate, but she had proven she spoke truly of the future. She knew what would be, she was the only one capable of closing rifts. And the Inquisitor loved her.    
He flung himself into motion, closed the space between him and the Herald with barely enough time to toss her aside with his shoulder and angle his sword so the attacking terror impaled itself on the point even as its claws tore through his armor and flesh.

It hurt. It hurt even more as the demon began to collapse and pulled him down by the claws piercing his shoulder, chest, maybe lungs. He stifled the urge to whimper as he realized that there was little chance he would survive this.

The Herald knelt before him in a vision of glowing eyes and wild hair as she began hacking at the curved claws with her dagger.

"Is this my purpose, herald?" He forced the question out, hoping that this was his redemption. His act that absolved his mistakes. His purpose that would bring him peace.

"No." She practically snarled, and his heart sank before she bared her teeth like the Inquisitor in his battle rages, "Not yet."

And then everything was pain. Bright pain burning and consuming and flooding through him till it felt like everything in him was being seared together like the layers of a shield in a forge and he could do nothing but scream under the force of her magic. 

And then it was done and he could breathe but the echoes of pain made his muscles tremble as the Herald’s light went out and she fell to the ground. He barely made it to his feet before her elven lover was by her side, gathering her up like she was the most precious thing in his world. He stood guard as the Inquisitor raced to him, asked if he was well. 

He avoided the truth. He was not. He was fated to die to save another. He had suspected since she first declared he was needed, but now the prophet had spoken, had done the impossible and had healed him in seconds from a fatal wound. He ached with the remnants of her power. "I am healed."

He stood guard and held the thought that he was fated to sacrifice himself for his mistakes in the clutches of his mind. The Inquisitor thanked him for saving her and he was grateful when the boy interrupted him before he could blurt out something embarrassing like, "She is important to you." The boy gripped his shoulder and stared at him with those intensely pale eyes as he declared that the reason didn't matter, he was just grateful.

What was he to do with the force of the man’s earnestness? He faltered as the Inquisitor asked him again if his shoulder was alright, still concerned even after the declaration that he was healed. He considered claiming that he was alright, but his body still ached with magic and he shook his head. 

The other mage, the Tevinter, explained that it was so painful because she had performed weeks of delicate healing magic in a matter of seconds. Hawke commented on his screaming, and he flinched, his pride feeling bruised as well as the expectation of a round of mockery. Nothing invited cruelty quite like screaming. 

But the boy just released his shoulder and asked after everyone else, then ordered for camp to be set until the Herald recovered. Loghain didn’t know where to go. He should go try to salvage what he could of his armor, but he found himself unwilling to leave the Inquisitor’s shadow. It felt… safe. He knew it would not protect him from his fate, but the boy had been kind and allowed him to be silent. His muscles still trembled from the power forced through them and his head was reeling with the fact that he was fated to die. Most likely for her. He felt a semblance of determination settle in his mind. He was to be the Herald’s protector then. Redemption in protection.

He watched the elven apostate clean demon blood from the Herald, the Inquisitor watching with hands clenching as if he wanted to snatch her from him but felt it was not his place. The boy watched her with wounded eyes, his own lover guarding the doorway in a silent tower of loyalty. 

The other qunari approached and held his empty hands out as if to show he was not a threat as he told the elf that there was a bed prepared for the Herald. The elf’s eyes glinted but he set his mouth and allowed the man to carry her out of the temple. Loghain moved to follow, to continue his self appointed task of guarding her, but the Inquisitor gestured for him to stay behind, and Maker help him, he obeyed.

The boy exchanged meaningful looks with his lover and they smiled at each other before she slipped out of the doorway, leaving him completely alone with the Inquisitor. Once it was just the two of them, the boy looked at him with those piercing mismatched eyes, picking him apart with his gaze before he asked yet again if he was alright. 

Loghain’s muscles trembled again but he tried to play it off in a humorous manner. The boy responded in kind, but then tapped his head and fixed him with those eyes, steel and moon pale. Was he all right in the head. Loghain explained as vaguely as he could the revelation that had been forced upon him, and the Inquisitor offered him sympathy and willingness to help him try to avoid fate. 

While he appreciated the gesture, he did not think it was his place to defy his destiny. His life was full of mistakes and regrets, and if he could atone for Cailan, for Maric, for Rowan, for Fereldon, for the Wardens, for Anora, with the act of protecting the Herald, he would do it, again and again.

A thought struck him. He had heard that a mage using up their pool of magic was a sure way to die. Had the Herald risked her life to save him? Then what was his purpose? He asked the Inquisitor if it was as dangerous for her to have done what she did as he believed, and the boy reassured him that she was again impossible. While it was not dangerous for her to expend unbelievable amounts of energy, she had indeed risked her own life in order to keep him alive. That could only mean that his sacrifice was for something greater than just the Prophet of the Inquisition. 

The Inquisitor’s eyes narrowed like he had caught scent of a trail, but he simply offered to help him repair his armor. 

“You remind me of Maric.” He blurted out before he thought better of it. The boy grimaced as if he had been reminded of something unpleasant and Loghain laid out the best- the worst of his dead friend’s traits. 

The man seemed pleased by it and walked with him to the camp, where he embraced his lover in a chaste, but yet unabashadley public display of affection and trust that had him looking away before his cheeks could flush. He’d never seen such openly loving pairs as the Herald and Inquisitor with their lovers and each other. The touches, kisses, playful punches, and fond looks exchanged between the four as well as their secret language of hands. They loved each other deeply enough that songs of the four were sung in darker taverns and it was not the bawdy lyrics one would expect from such an arrangement, but rather interwoven love.

The Inquisitor and the Seeker helped him repair his armor as best as they could with the ruin the Terror’s claws had made of it. He found himself tracing his fingers over the jagged tears in the strong metal, imagining what his flesh must have looked like if the metal had fared so. Once the Inquisitor slipped away to send a raven, but came back with a pleased looking set to his mouth. Between his and the Seeker’s experience with repairing armor, and the Inquisitor’s skill with a hammer, they had returned his armor to a usable state.

He heard footsteps approach and stood in shock as he saw the Herald and her lover approach. How was she standing after that display in the temple? He thought of fading away when the Inquisitor leaped up and embraced the girl, practically swallowing her slight form with his bulk, but the elf apostate caught his eye and made a slight gesture in command to wait. The last time the Herald had gone near him of her own will, he’d had painful magic forced through his body. He was reluctant to repeat the experience, but waited as the Inquisitor scolded the girl until she punched him playfully and he released her, but still kept an arm out for her to lean on.

She made a face before putting on a weak smile and thanking him for rescuing her. He did not know what to do with the girl’s thanks. She hated him, she had been clear on that point, had spat his crimes at his feet like the taint they were, but they were both apparently necessary. He tried to escape, grabbed his armor and tried to brush off her gratitude as he fled, but she called out two words to his back that felt like a blow to the chest.

“I’m sorry.”

He froze, confused and a little desperate. He wanted to turn and seize her by her tiny shoulders, shake her until she told him why, why, why was she sorry? Why was she trying to be polite to him? What had changed? Could she tell he had accepted his fate? Was that the beginning of his redemption? He had done nothing yet. She was not wrong to hate him, and he told her that, forcing himself to stay facing away from her to leash his impulse to beg for answers.

But she sounded so sad as she offered his own words back to him, a quiet offering of understanding. And then she reminded him of a secret childhood memory. Adalla. Poor, sweet, loyal Adalla. His breath caught in his chest at both the reminder of a painful loss and the fact that she knew of things like that. Secret things only shared with Dog. Why was that small act of childish kindness the thing that she Saw? Was his love of Mabari some redeeming factor in her eyes? Was it a subtle reminder of the times he had been forced from the camp fire’s light to rest with Dog and the horses, some round about way of proclaiming pity?

“Sometimes the dogs were better company.” He dared face her for a moment, his joke falling flat in the face of her teary and simply blue eyes. She was truly apologizing. To him. He bowed his head to hide his expression and fled, leaving the Inquisitor and the elven apostate both with an arm around her. 

The wait for the Inquisition troops to reach Adamant felt like an eternity. It seemed like the Inquisitor had laid some claim on him. The companions were polite and at times even welcoming. There were no sidelong glances when he joined them at the fire, and there was always a place left empty for him near the boy. One evening, as he was waiting for the group to finish eating so he could take his share without attracting anyone’s ire, he felt the Inquisitor’s gaze on him. The man was staring at him with his head cocked slightly like a thinking Mabari. After a moment he grunted in the depths of his chest and jerked his chin towards the pot. 

“There’s enough for everyone. Take as much as you want.” 

The other qunari’s gaze fell on him, but it did not feel as heavy as the Inquisitor’s knowing gaze. He hesitated, casting a cautious glance at the Herald, only to find her caught in some conversation with her lover. He took a small portion, careful to leave some in the pot, but the Inquisitor leaned forward and scraped the pot, depositing the last of the ‘stir fry’ onto his plate with a meaningful glance. As he was leaned forward, he murmured low enough that the others could not hear.

“No one is going to lash out at you for taking your share. Eat as much as you want, and if you’re still hungry, I can make more.” The boy sat back as if he had not just pressed his fingers against a soul bruise and called out some joke that had the Seeker punching him in the ribs and the elf girl cackling loudly.

Loghain ate automatically, but he barely tasted the food for the whirling of his mind. How had the boy known his caution? What had revealed it? Why was he making sure he was well fed? Well rested? Well armored? Treated politely? It made no sense. If it had begun after his rescue of the Herald, he could have understood it as feeling indebted, but the boy had been like this since that day by the tower. 

He watched the boy closer after that, observed his interactions with the others. He, the Herald, the Seeker, and the elven apostate all revolved around each other like spokes on the wheel. The Seeker and the elf would sit near facing each other and talk with fluid hand gestures as they watched the Inquisitor and Herald spar. The Herald would lay sprawled across the elf’s lap as she talked to the Inquisitor while the Seeker braided his hair. The Inquisitor would bring out a flat wooden case and a book and take notes while deep in conversation with the elf while the Seeker and Herald played with the ravens. Once, he even came across them laying in a tangle of limbs out under the desert night air. They were all sprawled together as the Herald pointed at the stars and told some tale, punctuated by quiet murmurs. The four were definitely lovers, an open arrangement that had him feeling strangely angry as he snuck away before he was noticed. 

The Inquisitor’s interactions with his other companions were more discreet, but still might have brought a blush to a much, much younger Loghain's face. His eyes followed them as they moved, his hands reached out to touch a shoulder, squeeze an arm, tousle hair, or simply bump into them with his bulk so they laughed and staggered away from him. None of them seemed surprised or offended at his frequent physical touches. 

He would seek out the dwarf when he grew quiet, sit with him and describe some sort of novel from his homeland known as a ‘choose your own adventure’ until the dwarf’s eyes lit up and he scribbled in his notebook and gave the Inquisitor a crooked grin and called him by a ridiculous nickname.

He would find the qunari when he was staring blankly into the distance and grab him by the back of the neck, shaking him and murmuring into his ear until the man snarled and grinned and they began sparring with their bare hands until they were rolling in the sand and laughing as they left smears of blood behind them. After, they would clap each other on the back and walk off with their arms slung around each other to find the elven apostate to heal them. 

He would find the Tevinter sneering over a rip in his robes and would break out colorful thread and needles from his pockets and show the mage how to embroider flames such that they covered the rip without looking like a mend. They would chat and joke as they bent over the needle and thread and the Inquisitor would grin before flexing and making a comment that had the mage’s face flushing. 

He would find the Crow when he was staring at the ravens with a wistful expression and would make a lewd comment that would have the man flirting outrageously back. Eventually, one would lose their composure and burst into laughter and they would go their separate ways but later that evening the Crow would drape himself over the Inquisitor like a cat and stay there for as long as the Seeker allowed. 

He would find the elven girl when she grew twitchy and they would bend their heads together and whisper until they were giggling and everyone threw them wary glances. Often, he would break out paper and they would draw terrible stick figures and make illustrated stories the boy called ‘comics’, other times, she would ride on his shoulders and shoot arrows as he dashed around the camp like children.

He would find Hawke when her face grew drawn and pale and would plop down in the sand in front of her and say a nonsense word that had her brows furrowing in confusion. Without fail, she would ask what it meant and he would launch into an in depth explanation that had her looking amused but horrified. Eventually he would say something that had her blushing and reaching out to shove him and he would pretend she had managed to knock him over and they would giggle together.

Loghain often helped the scouts with the horses, grooming them silently as he listened to the gossip. The Inquisitor visited Madam De Fer’s rooms in the night. The Arcane Advisor and the Herald often visit the Inquisitor’s personal chambers along with the Seeker. The Inquisitor seemed very sad that Blackwall had been left at Griffon Keep. The Commander asked about the Inquisitor’s health often and one servant had told them that she had found crumpled up letters to the Inquisitor in the Commander’s bedroom that he had never sent. The kitchen staff had a cupboard set aside with treats for when the Inquisitor visited them. The soldiers had a corner where they propped up a drink in case the Inquisitor decided to visit them for a game of Wicked Grace and some songs. 

It seemed that The Inquisitor spread his affections easily and often. A rude part of Loghain wondered how the man had the stamina. But the man obviously cared deeply for every person within his inner circle, and they for him.

A set of armor arrived with the fresh rotation of Inquisition scouts and Loghain was stunned when he found it was for him. The boy had ordered him a new set of warden armor in silverite to replace his ruined set. It must have cost a fortune, but the Inquisitor brushed off his thanks with a flippant, “Yours was bust. No big.”

He went back to the horses that evening and began grooming the large gray gelding the Inquisitor favored so he could listen in on the fresh gossip from the new scouts. People tended to not notice a quiet worker. At first it was the normal mundane gossip of who tumbled who and who was assigned latrine duty for being drunk at the wrong time. But then one of the scouts who was preparing to head back to Skyhold spoke up.

“So the Inquisitor really personally paid for a set of armor for that Warden?”

One of the fresh scouts laughed. “Yeah. Rush job and all. Ain’t he a bit old for the Quizzer’s taste?”

“Warden’s not even as old as Lady Vivienne.” Another spoke up. 

“Besides, he favors interesting people, and you don’t get much more interesting than the Traitor Teryn.”

He found himself disturbed at the thought that it was readily assumed that he was to be added to the boy’s ‘collection’ of people. 

He tried to dismiss the overheard conversation as ridiculous speculation, but it still weighed heavy on his mind when the Inquisitor was helping him fit his new armor the next morning. The boy gripped his shoulder and jostled him in an overly familiar gesture and Loghain realized his attentions might truly have intent. He froze, mind scrambling for how to deal with this discovery, if it was safe to deny the Inquisitor, if he expected ‘company’ in return for aiding the wardens, if-

“Hey.” The Inquisitor suddenly released him and took a half step back, his hands up and open where Loghain could easily see them. “I’m sorry, I won’t touch you without permission.”

Loghain blinked at him, feeling off balance but grateful. He scowled out of reflex. “You-”

“Look. I’m a touchy guy, but I’m not gonna touch you if you’re not cool with it.” The boy paused and his eyes ran over him. “Are you okay? You need me to walk away?”

Loghain grunted, feeling angry that the man was acting as if he had been frightened by the simple contact, at the fact that he _ had _ been so affected. “No. Let us finish our work.” 

They worked in silence for several minutes before the boy spoke again. “If you come up behind me or while I’m falling asleep and touch me, I can’t breathe right for a while.” 

Loghain stilled at the confession but didn’t look at him. The sharing of experiences in an effort to comfort or reassure was as foreign to him as was the open arrangements of the Inquisitor and his followers. “You see too much.” He finally said, as close to admitting he had been frightened as his pride would allow.

“Yeah. Too much and not enough.” The man laughed and stood up. “I’m gonna go start rustling up supper. Any suggestions?”

Loghain scowled at the question, wondering if it was a trap or effort to smooth over the events of the past few minutes, but answered anyway. “I liked those toasted sandwiches that you made my first evening camping with your group.”

“Grilled cheeses comin’ up.” The boy grinned, bright and open, and walked off as if nothing awkward had happened. 

Supper that night was indeed grilled cheeses and the group had left a space for him beside the Inquisitor. He was hesitant to sit beside him, but the boy was careful to leave space between them so that they never brushed against each other. He hadn’t noticed just how often he had casually come into contact with the man until it was gone. The only indication that the other companions gave that they had noticed the change in behavior was that they seemed to be more careful not to brush against him as they reached over him to snag scraps from the pan. 

He laid awake in his tent for a long time that night, memories of his time with the so called Hero contrasting sharply with the events with the Inquisitor until he could not sleep. Eventually he gave up trying to rest and left his tent. He was wary to see the second qunari sitting by the fire in front of the Herald’s tent. The man held his finger to his lips in clear signal to stay silent, so Loghain nodded his agreement and slipped away to the outskirts of the camp. He heard the quiet ring of steel leaving a sheath a hairsbreadth before his eyes adjusted to the darkness enough for him to see the Seeker sitting on the ground with a dark bulk across her lap that could only be the Inquisitor. Eyes glinted in the darkness and he saw the Herald’s elf standing over the pair, a sword in his hand. 

Guarding them. Guarding them as the Inquisitor slept in the open. Loghain held his hands up in deference and quietly backed away back towards the campfire. He silently settled next the qunari, wondering why the man was out in the dark and sand. 

“He has bad dreams.” 

Loghian startled at the qunari’s quiet rumble and looked at him sharply. “Should you be telling me that?”

“He’s sharp. Sees through all kinds of shit. Sees too much.” The qunari eyed the Herald’s tent thoughtfully. “He protects people.”

“He… seems to be a good man.” Loghain admitted.

The qunari grunted in amusement. “Best I ever seen.” 

Silence fell for a long moment, until the quiet crackle of a log falling into embers startled Loghain into speaking. “Why does he sleep out in the sand?”

The qunari studied him shrewdly before answering. “He’s scared of being alone. Terrified of losing the people he cares about.”

Loghain glanced from him to the tent containing the sleeping Herald. “Like her?”

“Like her.”

“I will help stand watch.” It was a promise of sorts, a commitment to protecting what the Inquisitor cared for so dearly. There was so much evil in the world, himself included, that he had no hesitation striving to protect the truly good left. The one eyed qunari seemed to understand because he smiled and made room for Loghain to join him on his seat by the fire. 

  
  
  
  


It tore something inside himself to see Adamant under siege by the Inquisition. Despite it being Orlesian, it was an ancient stronghold of the Wardens, and it was in flames. The Inquisitor dragged him into the main tent along with the inner circle and the Inquisition Council for a planning session and another round of prophecies from the Herald. Even the scarred commander and dangerously soft voiced spymaster took her word as fact, though Loghain couldn’t blame them. He’d seen first hand how accurate her predictions were. 

“I may not like you, but you are needed.” 

When the girl prophesied the impossible, not a one of them reacted with disbelief but with horror. To walk in the Fade physically… the thought made Loghain fear. The Inquisitor immediately asked who would be fated to such a terrible thing, and the Herald looked directly at him uneasily when she said his name. 

“I may not like you but you are needed.” 

Maker’s mercy, this was it. His fate lay in the Fade. So be it. He would play his part and earn his redemption. Distantly, he heard the Inquisitor comfort the strange boy into staying behind and then the discussion of the details of their mission, and then he heard the prophet say a sentence that had his attention focusing on her with the intensity of a striking falcon.

“After… after we get back, you’ll have the choice to either banish the Wardens from Orlais or conscript them to the Inquisition.”

The silence after that declaration weighed on Loghain worse than the heaviest of armors, and the weight only grew heavier when the boy sighed a soul weary sigh and asked for everyone’s opinions. 

The Herald’s elf, apparently the Arcane Advisor, stated painful but true facts, but Loghain couldn’t help but defend the Wardens. Maker help them all if the Wardens should fall. He knew what lay beneath the surface and the Wardens had to keep it at bay. Everyone bristled, ready to argue their views, but the Inquisitor held his hand up and they all fell silent as if under a spell as he asked the tiny prophet the consequences of his decision. 

Neither fate that fell from her lips was good. 

The Inquisitor considered her words. “If we kept them, we can keep an eye on them, weed out the ones showing signs of his influence. Also-” He held up his hand again when the Arcane Advisor looked like he was going to argue. “You need bodies for your experiments.” 

Horror rushed down Loghain’s spine. "Bodies? Experiments?”They would experiment on the bodies of the Wardens? They would conscript them to kill them? “Please, Inquisitor, I know what I must do, I will carry out my part, but spare the other wardens."

The man stared at him with narrow eyes and Loghain’s mind scrambled for what to do. The Inquisitor held all of the power, held the fate of the one defense against the Blight. Did he want him to beg? Loghain was not above begging for the Wardens, would put aside his pride in order to save his order. He started towards the floor, prepared to beg for their lives from his knees when Hawke seemed to gather her wits and yelled that the Herald was curing the blight, and the experiments were on live and willing people. 

The Inquisitor suddenly looked horrified as the others leaped to explain and Loghain felt a rush of relief that the thought of killing the wardens for rituals had not even occurred to the boy. And then the full impact of the declaration made his knees weak again and he had to sit down lest he collapse. Cure? The Blight itself? And she had supposedly done it once already. She had cured the blight and wanted to spread the cure. She wanted to do what the Wardens had been fighting for for years. 

“I may not like you, but you are needed.” 

His purpose was all the clearer. He must protect the tiny thing, not just for her prophecies and ability to close the rifts, but also for her goals. Maker’s breath, to cure the blight! And the wardens would aid that cause. He looked at the Inquisitor, hoping against hope that the boy would save the Wardens.

The Commander spoke quietly about the military benefits of having the Wardens, and the Inquisitor looked at the Arcane Advisor, who, though not entirely happy, shrugged. With that the Orlesian Wardens’ fate was set. He felt a numb sense of relief as the Inquisitor turned to improving siege equipment. 

Adamant did not last long after that. The Inquisitor was brilliant and the shielded battering ram tore through the ancient gates, allowing them to spill in and cut through the resistance they met. Loghain kept to the Herald’s left, guarding her blind spot and grateful that the task meant he did not have to lock blades with his brothers in arms. The Inquisitor kept close to the girl, which meant he could see the boy’s full body flinch when his advisor tried to hand him a potion vial. Everyone looked understanding as the boy visibly forced himself to take the potion from the elf’s hand. The boy went downhill after that, falling into his battle rage and not seeming to really hear when people spoke to him. He would rotely snarl orders to protect his people, but his eyes were distant, unseeing. 

The Seeker and advisor looked grim and the Herald looked heartbroken as they watched the boy bare his teeth at the enemies he tore through. The moment they had a clear space, the Seeker grabbed the boy and backed him easily against the wall and dragged him back into the moment. They had a quiet conversation and then the Herald’s elf passed the potion’s belt to the Seeker. It was an interaction that spoke of many secrets.

A few more battles, a few more speeches, and then the Herald grabbed her elf and bodily threw them behind a pillar with a shout of warning. That second of warning saved their lives as they leaped behind cover just as tainted fire washed over the space they had been in. Never had Loghain felt as frightened as when they  _ chased after _ the dragon. The Warden Commander was crushed in its jaws, and he heard the Herald whisper the Warden’s Oath as Clarel injured the dragon from beneath its claws. 

The Inquisitor shielded the Herald with his body and then the stone beneath their feet was cracking and the boy was urging them to safety. He tripped, a stone falling out beneath his feet and he fell to the ground. He half expected them to leave him, to get themselves to safety, but the boy, Damon, grabbed his arm and hauled him bodily to his feet. The unexpected pause in their escape cost them and his last sight was of Damon’s terrified but resigned expression as they fell.

And then… he was in the fade. The air felt sickeningly thick against his skin and his mind ached with trying to find which way was up. He was physically in the Fade, Maker help him. The tiny Prophet led them through the cloying paths and frigid waters until they came to the spirit of the late Divine. The two spoke of the nightmare controlling the false Calling, and the girl’s eyes flicked to him when she declared she knew she would need help to get past it. 

So that was it then. He was needed to hold off the Nightmare so that she and the Inquisitor could save Thedas. So be it. He would find peace in this redemption. The spirit tried to comfort him, but he knew his part. He would not fail. 

And then the visions, or memories? Of the Herald and Inquisitor. Maker, he did not know how to feel about it. He saw them appear out of thin air, saw the girl shove the boy aside to claim the mark, and heard her admit that she did it because she knew the cost.

Her mark was not of Andraste, and he asked as much, but she was right. She never had claimed to be holy. Chosen or not, she knew the future, and… the pair had appeared from nothingness. The only ones who did not seem shaken by that revelation were the Seeker and the Herald’s elf. Loghain would readily admit he was not the most faithful man, but he was practical. The pair were extraordinary and he would do his best to protect them. 

And then Hawke was biting at him and he was biting back, and the Inquisitor was trying to calm them both, and then the Nightmare spoke, his booming voice crawling along Loghain’s spine. The words were aimed at the Herald, and she paled and froze until her lover shook her from her thoughts. The Inquisitor stepped up, distracting them and making humorous replies as the Nightmare picked through their fears one by one. The man even defended him when it was his turn to have his fears laid bare. The man laughed off the attacks at his own fears, seemingly unaffected by them.

Unaffected until the man froze as a vision of a dying human flickered into existence at his feet. A lover? A friend? Loghain couldn’t help but watch with rapt attention as the Herald tried to shake the qunari from his memories… of himself. The man had been human? Had died without the Herald’s knowledge. How was this possible? How could someone be human, and then not? Dead and then not? It shook everything he thought he knew. And so when the Herald brought the boy back from his nightmares, he did not join the questioning, though he dearly wished to. His questions would not matter in the end. 

They moved on again and the other qunari offered the silent boy a joke, and he in turn gave a threat that had the both of them looking pleased. Strange beings, qunari. Or…was it a qunari thing or just two strange individuals? If Damon had been human before… then was the race that important in how one behaved? 

Judging by the next memory they were subjected to, the pair had always been ridiculously protective of each other. After the vision had faded, the pair embraced, then pulled in their lovers. Loghain looked away from the intimate moment and suggested they move on. 

The demon pulled yet another visionary trick on the herald herself, the burning of Haven as she escaped, her split second decision to save the child, the guilt at leaving the women. Her lovers were quick to comfort her, wrapping her up in their arms and assuring her she made the right decision. Internally, he felt she was right to save the one she could as well. The girl was too small to have saved the woman, and to have tried would have doomed all three of them. But… he intimately understood the guilt that came from doing what one must. 

The girl kept looking back at him, sorrow, pain, guilt, and grief In her eyes. Her eyes that no longer glowed with angry power when she saw him. Then he realized: she was grieving for him, for his loss. It was like a punch to the gut to see that look in her eyes. This girl who hated him, now grieved over his sacrifice, a sacrifice he was willing to pay. He found himself reaching out and gripping her shoulder, in some small attempt to comfort her. It is okay. 

The gesture see med to perform its purpose and she battled the next swarm of demons with her face set in righteous fury. When the last one had fallen, she looked over his face, which was throbbing from where a stray blow had glanced it, and handed him her last healing potion.

A strange offering for one who knew he was not much longer for life. But… he appreciated the gift nontheless. She was unlike anything he had ever expected or known. 

When the demon reached them, he was ready.  The look the herald gave him was confirmation enough. This was it. His path to redemption. He gripped his sword in determination. “Go. I will hold it off.” 

“I may not like you, but you are needed.” 

The Inquisitor looked at him and the Herald with dawning horror. “Emma… no…That’s why we needed him? That’s why you said we had to bring him?”

The Herald nodded, her shoulders trembling with emotion. Loghain tried to reassure the boy that he knew and accepted this fate. One last plea for the safety of the Wardens, and he turned to the monstrous being, prepared to give his last.

“No.” The boy’s snarl raised the hairs on his neck with it ferocity. “I ain’t doin’ like that.” He made a quip to the other qunari, and they both gripped their axes, prepared to charge with him. 

The herald tried to dissuade them, but the Inquisitor just squared up his feet for a charge. “Emma. do you know why the gods fear Ragnarok?”

The strange words meant something to the girl, because she inhaled shakily and began glowing with magic. “Because even the gods must die.” 

The fight that ensued was like nothing he had ever witnessed in his lifetime. The Lioness made of pure light, the same light that radiated from the girl’s eyes. The monstrosity that was the Nightmare. In the end he was left staring at his sword in disbelief. They had done it… and he was alive. 

In his state of shock he had not realized the shift to the fade around them nor that the girl had collapsed in exhaustion

Her last cry was for the Inquisitor and he rushed to her, unheeding of the ichor on his hands as he grabbed hers, magic flaring brightly from where their palms met. A whispered word of comfort, and then the boy was taking her from her lover and looking around. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he looked over the changes in the fade.

“Wh- what is this place?” Hawke again gave voice to the questions Loghain dearly wanted to ask but did not dare to. The farm, for that is what it was, with open fields amidst a forest, and a lone tree within them, standing proudly against the sun. He mind returned unbidden to his father’s farm. He shook the memory away before it could take hold.

The boy’s voice echoed with loss and memory that Loghain felt keenly. “Home.”

He stared at his sword, still dark with the Nightmare’s blood. What now? He had been ready. It would have been a small price to pay for redemption. She had been certain it was the only way. Then it hit him, the reality of it all. For all her gifts, the girl was not infallible, she was capable of mistakes, she saw things but that did not make them set in stone. The boy had changed his fate, and now he was alive and unredeemed still. The Inquisitor’s voice jarred him from his musings and he looked blankly up at the man, his mind still whirling with uncertainty. 

“You did good. You got rid of the false calling. Lead the way home?”

It felt like benediction, like purpose. He straightened his spine and headed for the green tear in the Fade, forcing his way through the jarring sensation of changing realities. 

He was immediately plied with reports from the other wardens. Howe having taken over the efforts of reorganizing them all after Clarel’s death… it was good to see the young man, he had feared his non-mage status would have doomed him to be sacrificed. 

A bright flare of light drew his attention back to the boy in time to see him closing the rift with the Herald’s limp hand. Cheers broke out as the rift sealed into nothingness, but the boy looked drained. Loghain went to him, unsure how to aid, but feeling the need to. A report.  “ Corypheus has lost both his demon army and the Warden mages now that the Nightmare is dead. But the soldiers will no doubt spread stories of how you and the Herald broke the spell with the power of the Maker.” 

The boy tried to hide a grimace but he could still see it. “They’ll say what they need to get through the night.” 

“Indeed.” He had a good understanding of how people made it through difficult times. But there were more Wardens, and Loghain needed to make sure they were safe from this calamity. “While they do, I will report to the Wardens at Weishaupt-”

“ No.” The boy cut him off sharply. His reasons were sound, but it felt like a leash settling around him yet again, a leash he knew far too well. He had escaped one Hero far too recently. 

“What would you have me do then, ser?” He might have put a little too much emotion in the words because the boy flinched slightly.

“Stay with the Inquisition, return with us to Skyhold. Help where you can, let us help you how we can.” 

He looked over the clustering of his surviving brothers and sisters with a scowl. Would they be doomed to serve a wolf hiding among the sheep as he had? He pushed the thought aside. “You have the makings of a great army, Inquisitor. Use it well.” 

“And He shall judge among the nations, and shall rebuke many people: and they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.” The boy’s voice sounded distant, but the words felt charged with power. A future yet to be made reality. And the words were from the Herald’s mother. A prophecy laid upon the young man? He did not get the chance to ask as the boy was hurrying off to care for the unconscious girl and lead his Inquisition. 

The soldiers were r estless, it was easy to see and understandable after such a battle. His own mind was unsettled by what he had witnessed and experienced. He gave his report to the Nightingale, detailing what had happened in the fade and their discoveries, but of the visions… the memories the demon had used on the two… seemed too personal and not his to tell.

Despite the boy having conscripted the Wardens, Loghain found that he much preferred the company and companionship he had found at the Inner Circle’s fire than that of his fellow Wardens. He made his way to them, and was surprised but grateful when they simply made space for him. 

Solas held the girl in his lap until she woke, the dwarf, Varric, left shortly after to find the boy, who had wandered off by himself shortly after conscripting the Wardens. Loghain wondered if it was the same need for solitude as after the Ritual Tower, but felt it was not wise to disturb it a second time. 

When the boy returned he headed to the girl as if drawn by a line, kneeling and placing his head in her lap in a gesture of utter weariness and weakness and asked her to sing for him, sing ‘for real’. He almost didn’t follow them, but something in the way the girl looked directly at him when she motioned for the group to follow had him rising from his seat on the sand and following them into the dark. The boy led her to a stone jutting from the sand and lifted her gently onto it, as if she were something precious, and stepped back. 

And then… Maker’s tears… She sang, and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. Her magic somehow entwined with the words of promise she sang and Loghain found himself blinking back moisture from his eyes as her song relieved the weight bearing down on his chest that he hadn’t even realized was there until it was gone and utter peace settled into its place. Her power called out the magic of all the mages present and her elven lover explained the effects of her instinctual spell as the girl and the Inquisitor embraced. 

Never before had he experience magic so controlled yet wild, powerful yet… healing. All other magic he had ever experienced set his teeth on edge, dangerous and volatile, a weapon to be used but also guarded. Yet this girl… he shut his eyes tight against those thoughts. Not tonight. 

Once back at the fire, the boy wearily but good humoredly invited questions, and after a brief exchange of batner, the dwarf pulled out a paper from his pocket. Loghain found himself leaning forward, eager to hear the answers to the questions whirling in his head. And the first question asked was about the lioness of magic that the girl had conjured in the fade. That wasn’t what he wanted to know about, but listened to the explanation. 

The second qunari asked, or rather, didn’t ask the question gnawing at his mind. How had the boy become qunari if he had been born human? Was it magic gone awry? What manner of magic could even do such a thing?

But the boy just looked at his hands with a lost expression and quietly said he did not know. The Seeker jumped to his defense, her fiery eyes daring any to continue that line of questioning. She was fiercely protective of the boy. 

The others quickly changed tracks and the Dwarf asked about the word the boy had said in the Fade, that had apparently been said before in an emergency. Ragnarok. They syllables made the hair on his neck rise. 

“Now I shall tell you of the days to come. I shall tell you how it will end, and then how it will begin once more. These are dark days I will tell you of, dark days and hidden things, concerning the ends of the earth and the death of the gods. Listen, and you will learn. This is how we will know that the end times are upon us. It will be far from the age of the gods, in the time of men. It will happen when the gods all sleep.” The girl spoke the haunting words with a distant look in her eyes and Loghain felt a chill down his spine at the idea that this might be a prophecy. 

The boy tilted his head back and closed his eyes as he began telling the story of the deaths of the gods, the girl speaking up when his voice failed, and together the two unraveled the story of the end of the world. He had seen with his own eyes the girl’s words come to truth, and these were often repeated words, if unfamiliar to him. They fell silent and he is not ashamed to admit that he fled, unwilling to risk hearing more.

He did not retire to his tent that night, the myriad of questions whirling about in his mind would not allow for it. Instead he wandered the camps, keeping an eye out for any hidden dangers, waking a few soldiers who cried out in their sleep. He kept himself busy to avoid his own confusion and fear, and then he saw her.

The girl was walking bare footed through the sand, rubbing her bare arms from the cold as she stared at the stars. Alone and small in the desert night. He looked but there was no one, no body guard, no one to safeguard her. This would be a prime time for an assassin to strike. She drew her dagger when he got close to her, but he was too close before she moved towards her weapon. Too close, and she lowered it before she recognized him.

She claimed she could not sleep, but then she offered him that soft look and soft words and he could not stand it from her. She offered him redemption and apologies and soft words despite the fact she rightfully hated him. He would guard her for tonight.

She objected, but gave in quickly when he insisted, though she seemed at a loss when he followed her. She seemed to wander aimlessly for a while, walking in between and around test with no direction at all. He wondered if she was casting her spells as the cries of men trapped in nightmares ceased as she walked. She found her way to the commander and sat beside him, the commander only sparing him a passing glance, apparently accepting his presence. They spoke of their nightmares, and Loghain was surprised to hear that this was the girl’s first true battle. 

The Commander offered words of comfort and she accepted them gratefully. The way the man looked at her, wistful almost. Their awkward exchanges were telling, and excruciating to sit through. She was awkward, yet affectionate with the man, and he was wistful and bashful with her. Loghain called them on it, pointing out their fumbling in the hopes that they would stop. He did not want to leave the girl alone, no doubt she would wander off by herself again, but did not want to have to sit through their fumbling attempts at conversation. 

To his surprise the girl laughed and proceeded to ‘reintroduce’ herself as if it would make things better between the two. The commander responded by doing the same, with an easy smile.

There was some history between the two: where the girl was openly affectionate with everyone else, she clearly held back when it came to the commander of her forces. They did not speak of it, however, simply falling into quietness as they watched the stars move overhead. Loghain found himself grateful for the company as the night crept on, the soothing aura from the girl doing it’s magic about them. 

The sun was just starting to lighten the sky when the girl finally decided to bid the Commander goodbye. He trailed behind, which was likely why he noticed the way the Commander’s smile fell once the girl had turned from him. Loghain shook his head, everything about it struck him as strange. Everything about the pair was strange, if he was honest with himself. World’s apart from what he knew. 

His internal musings were too much of a distraction, and the girl ran into a soldier he hadn’t noticed with an audible ‘oomph’ as the air left her lungs. He mentally cursed his inattention and snapped at the soldier to watch where he was going. She could have been hurt, a tiny thing like her running into a fully armored soldier. The girl defended the hapless man, and then seemed shocked when she recognized him, and turned around to scold him for being here. It was highly suspicious, especially when the man paled and began stuttering at her simple scold. The girl tried to tell him to leave, but every instinct in Loghain was telling him that there was something wrong. But the man was in the Inquisitor’s inner circle, and Loghain was loathe to push his luck while under the man’s power. The reminder of his conscription soured his mood and he bowed to the girl before charging the man with her protection and leaving. 

The aftermath o f battle was always the worst for the soldiers. In the heat of battle you can detach yourself from what you are doing, it is far harder to detach yourself when you are ordered to build funeral pyres for your fallen comrades, or for the boy not yet old enough to grow a beard you had to cut down to save yourself or your fellow.

The Commander Rutherford was to be commended for his efficiency in running his army. The Inquisition was lucky to have him. He had volunteered his services to help, which the man gladly accepted. He was just returning to report that the first of the pyres had been organized when he walked onto the tail end of a discussion between the Commander and the Inquisitor. They boy didn’t know what to say at the funeral, what the soldiers needed to hear. 

Loghain risked speaking up, he knew what they needed to hear, and they deserved to hear it from their leader. To his pleasant shock, the boy was genuinely grateful, but then asked what funerals were like ‘here’. Loghain explained, wondering if it was even slightly possible-

“So it’s true then? That you came into existence at the Conclave?” The Commander asked hesitantly, unknowingly asking the question weighing on his own mind. 

“As far as I know, I’m not a spirit.” The boy’s voice was exasperated, yet fond and Loghain wondered aloud how often he had been met with that accusation. Because… if he thought about it, it made a disturbing amount of sense. 

The boy had followed his advice and his speech at the funeral seemed to hearten the survivors. He had also had the elven mage transform the shields of the fallen into a pair of braided trees, a fitting monument to those lost. Loghain found his eyes drawn back to the statues again and again as they packed up and began the journey back to the Inquisition’s fortress. There was a shield in that tree that had belonged to a man he had trained himself, that he had not even thought of in years until he had seen the familiar shape. 

A knot of activity around the Herald and Inquisitor attracted his attention and Loghain nudged his mount towards it, cautiously curious. It was something serious, judging by the boy’s grim expression and the shock on the councilor's faces. The soldier that the girl had recognized was there, his face white but determined, and Loghain felt a rush of anger as the man dismounted and was promptly arrested.

She lied. 

Word spread like wildfire and his anger turned to an uncomfortable feeling of dread and guilt.

Thom Rainier. The man responsible for the Callier massacre. And he had left her alone with him.  The thought soured his mood more than it should have. He confronted her on her protection of the man, tried to get the girl to see how her naivety could get herself killed, but she still defended the man and threw the Denerim alienage incident in his face. Again he was to bare the blame for his daughter's actions against her own people He felt his gut clench. 

The boy intervened though, and threw him an apologetic glance while he chastised the girl, who apologized.

“I'm sorry.” 

Again those words. The boy rode off to ride in the front of the procession and the girl looked after him with a lost expression. The girl was letting her emotions get in the way of cold facts, it would get her killed one day if she didn't learn.

That thought made up his mind on something he had been chewing on since exiting the Fade. If the girl would not protect herself, he would safeguard her for now. He set his jaw. “I will not be leavening you next time.” He warned before spurring his gelding forward. He had arrangements to make. Howe would make a good leader in his stead.

She may not like him, but he was needed. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art by AntlersandFangs
> 
> Solas and Damon by the throne of course, with the raven Muninn and wolves Hel, Jormungandr, and Fenrir, an older Gaelathe is on the floor to the left, Ash and Danielle are on the steps by Cassandra. The older twins Isalen and (to be named) are behind the curtains the right of the throne

The Inquisitor Will See You Now


	4. Frya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence, child endangerment (no children are harmed)

The conclave exploded and I knew… my Ash’len… gone in a blink of an eye. The sky was torn open and demons fell around us. At first I believed that this was it, the soldiers cried about the end of the world.

But then it wasn’t: the survivors, a tiny little thing, weak as a newborn colt, and a dark mountain of muscles and horns was proclaimed to be their deliverance. Unlike the others who cheered over their good fortune, I couldn't find it in myself to find relief. What was I to do now? I was seven months pregnant with our child, who would never know their father’s love. My options were limited. The blacksmith wouldn’t hire me, the manual labor alone he said would kill me or my child. Sigrit ran me away with slurs of ‘knife-eared whore’. Threnn, the quartermaster, took one look at my swollen belly and refused to hear my request. ‘Come back after the child's birth’ was all she said. And I was of no use to the healers, the very sight and smell of blood sent me running to vomit in the nearest bush.

In the end the only one to hire me was Flissa. The human woman took pity on me one evening when I had huddled by the taverns fire to try and warm myself. I had spent the last on my coin two days prior and couldn’t afford my next meal. 

She saw me and came over shortly after, I feared she would throw me out and I’d have to seek the forges dying embers for warmth. But instead of harsh words she brought over a bowl of stew practically shoving it into my chilled hands. “After all this time cooking for crowds and I still make more than I can sell.” She said as if it explained away her kindness and strode back to the counter. 

My pride demanded I try and pay her back in some way even as I devoured the stew. My belly fuller than it had been in days, I tore a strip off of my worn apron and set to work cleaning the tables of spills.

The next few days that followed, I would arrive at the tavern just before midday, Flissa would shove a bowl of porridge into my hands, ‘leftovers from mornings rush’ though it was always piping hot and nowhere near the congealed mess hours old porridge always became. Then I would clean the tables and sweep the floors and carry trays and drinks. My feet would swell and my back ached constantly but I was earning my keep. Then Flissa would give me the ‘leftovers’, always hot and filling. I would return to my tent to find a new blanket had replaced my worn and ratty one. 

Life we nt on, hard and painful, but I had to keep going for my babe. I had little interaction with anyone else besides Flissa, for which I was thankful, Varric Tethres would sometimes leave extra coins on the table, always under the bowl he used so no one else would see them. The apostate, Solas, who was always polite, once even asked my name, promising to speak later with me. But all in all people left me alone. 

Then one evening Flissa pressed a tray into my hands with a nervous expression. “I need you to take this to the Herald’s cabin. Be careful.” 

The tray was heavy and the snow was cold, but I made my way to the infamous pair’s cabin. I had to balance the tray against the wall of the cabin to knock, but the door swung open quickly and a human girl, somehow shorter than me, took the tray from my hands. “Let me help you with that.” 

She was frowning and I worried that I had somehow done something to upset her already. A deep rumbling voice from the edge of the cabin startled me and I looked over to see the massive shadowed form of the Herald’s companion. He asked how far along I was and I worried at his attention. My answer seemed to horrify him, and he burst into a flurry of motion, surprisingly quick for something as bulky as him, somehow maneuvering me into a chair with a glass of water in my hands. And then he just… stared at me. His eyes were mismatched. One of them blade gray, and the other moon silver. 

He must have seen something because he sat down, hunching his shoulders as if trying to make himself smaller and promised they meant no harm, that they were trying to help. The Herald pulled on her coat with an angry expression and asked where I worked. I panicked, they were going to make me stop working. Until now I hadn't realized how much I enjoyed working for Flissa. Yes, it was difficult work but I could do it with my head held high without slurs of knife-ear and whore directed at me. Flissa was one of the few good ones, and I might just lose that.

The Herald left and I was left with her companion. Her lover, gossiping soldiers had said. He somehow managed to get me to start talking about my poor Ash’len and encouraged me to eat some of the food I had brought for his own supper until the door opened once more and the Herald re-entered with the Ambassador and the elven apostate in tow. The girl smiled at me and asked if the apostate could check on the health of my baby.

I had not had the money for the checks and I nervously but eagerly accepted the chance to make sure my child was alright. And while the mage was casting his magic, the Ambassador asked if I would be willing to work directly for the Herald as her personal maid. A personal maid! That was the most coveted of positions, the hardest job to get, but the easiest job to perform, and it was being offered to me just like that. But…

“My baby?”

“Will be just fine.” I was to have a son, a healthy son, and they were going to build a room for me and I was to have weeks off of my duties to recover and it was all too much. I began to cry, and the girl hugged me tightly and the Ambassador and the apostate left, the girl shutting the door behind them before leaning heavily against it and murmuring about “owing the apostate a favor.” 

The next morning, I woke before them, determined to earn my keep. This was an opportunity for me to provide for myself and my baby boy… a boy, I still could barely wrap my mind around it. I brought them breakfast, which they insisted I share with them. And then… I sat. They waved me away when I tried to lay out their clothes, they didn’t need help dressing, they didn’t want me to fetch and carry. Most of the girl’s time was spent reading, and the boy was either writing or making his rounds around Haven, chatting with everyone who would give him time. I took up sewing to keep my hands busy, fine fabrics and thread bought with my… obscene pay, to pass the time. I could hardly believe I was being paid to… sit. I brought them lunch, and they made me share, I brought them supper, and again, they insisted I share with them. That night a pair of soldiers dragged a bedframe into the small cabin and set it against the wall with the fireplace. For me. 

They were the strangest employers, seeming to prefer to do things themselves, and openly grateful for any task I did as if it wasn’t my job. 

It was in those few days I realized that the girl was not a noble, not like any noble I had known anyway. Though her teeth were an impossible white and her nut brown hair shined from a superior diet, she acted like she had never had a servant before. She was obviously educated, but her hands were calloused and more than once I found her idly dusting the mantle or making the bed with one hand while reading. Her companion doted on her, much like I expected a servant to do, but it was a fraternal care. Even when they shared beds it stayed chaste and innocent. He was an even stranger enigma, but seemed content to stay in the shadows and allow the girl to go and do as she wished. 

They left for Val Royeaux after just a few days and I found myself with even more time on my hands. I kept the cabin as clean as I could, but there just wasn’t much to do. I had already moved my meager belongings into the chest under my bed. I was idly embroidering some flowers when inspiration struck me. I could make them some new clothes! I knew they only had the one set. Which was another hint that they were not noble in any distant way. 

I managed to get a single set made by the time I heard word of their return, and being a fair cook, I made the cookies I had heard the boy wishing aloud for and had the cabin warmed and lit for their return, and had hot water brought up for them to bathe. They were obsessed with bathing. I would at least earn a portion of they pay they gave me. 

I tried to greet them properly, but the Herald simply hugged me and the boy seemed overjoyed by the simple cookies and clothing, even asking for permission to hug me as well. Their honest joy over my efforts instantly endeared them to me, and we stayed up late eating fine foods and the boy shared stories of their adventures. They really were just children. Overgrown children… and as I soon discovered, lost children.

A few nights I woke up to fevered murmurs, the boy jerking in his sleep. Ash’len used to have nightmares, remnants of his years as a slave in the Imperium. So, I knew not to touch him, simply calling his name gently, calling him back from his night terrors. It almost always worked, and then I would make him warm tea and we would talk about childhood and good memories until the sun rose or until the girl woke. He never told her of his struggles and I didn't think it my place to share. He trusted me and that was not a trust I would willingly betray.

Apparently the council had finally figured out the two weren’t lovers because another bed was moved in shortly after their return. Then the silly girl had started a snowball fight, pulling in several soldiers and prominent members of the Inquisition into it along with her. I may have thrown one or two but most refrained.

Then I saw them, the Commander and her crouched together behind impromptu cover, both grinning like children. He was a good man from what I had heard and seen, yet this was the first time I had seen the man smile. I wondered if there was something there? Only time would tell. They did not stay long after their ‘snow war’, packing up and heading back to the Hinterlands to try and save the mages. They were determined to help as many people as they could, despite the toll it took on them. In the short time I had been their maid, I had seen too many nightmares. The boy carried a terrible weight, some secret that had him sitting up late into the nights, holding his wrist and watching the girl sleep with sad, sad eyes. 

It got harder to see them go, each time knowing that the boy would come back with more to fuel his nightmares. The girl with less innocence in her eyes. I watched them leave, noting the Commander also stood by the stables until they were out of sight. I couldn’t keep the soft smile from my face as I made my way back to the cabin. I wondered if I could do anything to nudge the two a little.

I heard they were returning, expected to arrive late in the day. I had been having pains in my stomach, but the healer at Haven waved me off with orders to get back to work before I had even said what was wrong. Maybe the girl would ask the apostate to check on my son when they returned. I worked to prepare for their return, fighting the pains in my stomach and dizziness in my head when I moved too quickly. I could rest after I had the cabin prepared for them. They deserved something warm and comfortable after their journeys. But when I went to sweep, I felt another intense pain in my stomach, horrible enough to send me to the ground. The last thought I had before I fell into darkness was a prayer that my son would be alright. 

I couldn’t remember what had happened, just impressions of frantic shouting and ice and fire warring in my belly… but when I woke, I was greeted with tenderly wrapped bundle being laid in my arms. My son. My perfect little baby. They had saved him! My boy gave me a proud look before he turned and bolted out of the door, followed by the stern Seeker. 

My girl doted on me and helped me pick out my son’s name. Gaelathe, ancient elven for perfection. The apostate, who had expended so much magic to save us both, was asleep in a chair by my bed, and I laid back with my Gaelathe on my chest, my mind numb with both joy at my son, and realization of the fact that all of these people had worked so hard to keep us safe.

I woke to the soft sounds of my son’s whimpers and before I had even managed to sit up, My boy had picked Gaelathe up and had him changed and ready for me to nurse. He nodded his head to my still sleeping girl and I smiled at him as he went back to the table, where he began carving on something. It was quiet and peaceful and it felt… it felt like home. Never before had I felt this kind of sense of belonging. These crazy kids, they were mine and I was theirs. I must have fallen asleep again (my boy said that having a child is exhausting and I needed the rest), because when I woke, the stern Seeker was holding my son with an expression of absolute fear and wonder as he cried. 

My boy encouraged and talked her through it. The expression of utter admiration in his eyes as he watched the Seeker hold my son as if he were fine spun glass, took me by complete surprise. I knew from rumors and late night talks that confirmed them, that he had taken up with the leader of the Chargers shortly after they were hired, and that he flirted with anybody who seemed receptive. To see this… quiet admiration directed towards her, I had to wonder if perhaps this one was different from his usual ‘little bit of fun for both’ attractions. 

My girl burst in breaking my train of thought… when did she leave?... and slumped against the door with a panicked look, much like the first night I had first met her. Apparently she had somehow upset the Nightingale. The Seeker had brought a collection of baby items that she had gathered herself and I amused myself by sorting through them as the pair took turns cuddling  Gaelathe, singin g soft songs I had never heard before.

I asked them once, where they had learned the songs, and my boy’s face fell into a soft, sad expression as he gently held my son in his massive hands. “My father. He couldn’t hear real well, but he loved to sing. Learned every lullaby he could get his hands on while he was alive.” He laid my babe on the bed beside me and excused himself, running out the door.

It was then I realized that both of them were orphans. Orphans in a place not their home, away from all they knew, and with only each other. No wonder they had been so quick to take me in. They had seen themselves in me.

The sun was setting when a massive qunari knocked and poked his head into the door, his horns catching on the door frame. He grinned and said there was a celebration to be held at the tavern. My girl hesitated, clearly unwilling to leave me alone, but I urged her to go. The pair needed good memories. 

It was several hours before my boy returned, his expression grim. I looked for my girl to enter behind him but frowned when he closed the door without her appearance.

“She needs some time,” he said quietly, noticing my searching

I could tell something had happened from the strain in his voice. “What happened?” 

He hesitated before sighing and moving to sit beside me. “Someone brought up bad memories.”

I didn’t know what to say or how to comfort him so I went to pick up Gealathe and set my babe in his arms. It worked, the muscles of his shoulders immediately relaxed and he cradled the infant. I smiled and went to sit by the window to watch for her.

It was a few more hours before I finally saw her trudging towards our cabin. He must have realized as he quickly but gently laid the sleeping babe in his basket and moved to lay on the bed, feigning sleep.

My girl snuck in and when she saw him in bed, apparently asleep, her shoulders slumped in relief. “He didn’t keep you up, did he?” She whispered when she saw I was awake. He must have stayed up waiting for her often.

I smiled, doing my best not to let my eyes drift to the boy, “No, Gealathe was just laid down.” 

She nodded apparently satisfied with the answer as she shrugged off her coat and boots, first stealing a quiet look at Gealathe before easing into the bed, obviously trying not to wake her brother. 

I blew out the candles and settled into my own bed, shaking my head inwardly at the pair. They were so worried for each other yet hid so much of their hurts. He was protective and worried to near self sacrifice, but hid each sleepless night and sad expression from her, while she, oblivious as she seemed to naturally be, worried over his sleep and eating, combing his hair each morning with fond concern. Why did they not speak to each other? Surely as close as they were they shouldn’t need secrets.

The next day they fell back into their routine as if none of the previous night had happened at all. My girl only slipping up at the mention of a councilor meeting, shifting in her seat nervously. “You probably don’t even need me there.” She tried, pushing her porridge around with her spoon. 

“EmTi, we definitely need you there. I got you, hun.” My boy gave her a lopsided grin, trying to sound casual.

She nodded and stared at her porridge until it was time for them to leave. I watched them go with a heavy heart, wishing there was something I could do to help those poor children. Gaelathe seemed to sense the heartache in the air, or his stomach was hurting, or maybe he was getting sick. He cried even after being changed and fed and nothing I did seemed to help. By the time they returned, I was at my wits end, frantically wondering if he needed a healer. 

My boy easily took him from my arms giving me a reassuring smile, insisting that I just needed a break. I practically leapt at the chance to work on mending my girl’s shirt. As I worked, I thought about it, when exactly had I started thinking of the two as mine? ‘My boy?’ ‘My girl?. I didn’t know but it felt right. I smiled to myself as I worked. 

But my girl was quiet, staring out the window with a pensive expression so I prodded her for what was troubling her. My boy only spilled his secrets in the dark of night, but she gave in easily enough, admitting her worry about the breach and the mages she was determined to rescue. 

I listened and reminded her of all the good she had done, people she had help. She smiled with tearful eyes and hugged me. But I could tell she still doubted herself, her lost expression tearing at a place in my heart. 

“Gealathe was not my first child.” I found myself telling her, I had not thought of my suin’da’lan in years. She was before Ash’len, her father a human who had abandoned me shortly after he discovered I carried a child. She had had round ears, but I knew I would have still loved her had she lived. Though the pain had lessened over the years, I still felt the ache of her loss. I knew I would have been proud if suin’da’lan had been half as kind hearted and caring as my girl was, and I told her so.

She let me hold her as she cried and I wondered if my suin’da’lan would have- I cut the thought off. Wondering would do me no good. So we simply held each other until a knock sounded and we both pulled away to wipe our eyes.

It was the commander, and the look my girl gave him when she saw him holding Gaelathe spoke louder than any declaration of feelings ever could. I was proud when she invited him in for tea, and couldn’t help but feel amused as they conversed awkwardly and with shy smiles. They definitely were enamoured with each other and my girl did her best to cheer the man before he left. I hoped they made something of it, and hinted so. 

Two days later they left again, I passed the time sewing and caring for Gealathe, having a babe was both wonderful and terrifying. Was he eating enough? Was I holding him correctly? My boy had shown me how to care for him, and what to look for to tell if he needed a healer or was just gassy, but it still was nerve wracking, trying to decide if his crying was simply his stomach adjusting to my milk or if there was something wrong. 

Flissa came by to visit the day after they left, bringing with her blankets and clothes for Gealethe. It was good to see her, even if she tried to pretend she was just ‘curious what an elf baby looked like.’ Though I did catch her gently touching the points of his ears when she thought I wasn’t looking. I’d seen my boy and girl do the same, my girl with a wistful expression that spoke of someone lost. But though Flissa pretended to be asking for the gossip, she made sure that I was being treated well and that I had what I needed. 

The commander visited a few times during their absence. Awkwardly asking if I needed help with Gaelathe and if I agreed, I always agreed, he would sit at the table and hold Gaelathe until the tension in his shoulders eased and he could drink a cup of tea. I thought he seemed ill, but he never mentioned it. There was an awful commotion outside as people began filing into Haven. I saw many elves dressed in robes, and figured that my girl had done it, had saved the mages. 

But the next day a rider in full armor came thundering past on a horse, and it wasn’t long before I heard the whispers that something had gone horribly wrong. I sat by the window nervously, anxious to catch some gossip about what was going on, if something had happened to my girl and boy. A runner came to my door with the news that all noncombatants were to leave Haven in the morning, so I needed to pack up anything I wished to take with me. I thanked them for the news and continued waiting. They rode in some hours later, and I couldn’t describe the relief when I saw them if I tried. 

She looked pale, but seemed steady enough when the elven apostate helped her off of her horse. They looked anxious, concern lining their brows as they rushed into the Chantry. I took the time they were in the War Room to make their favorite cookies again. It looked like they needed a little comfort. 

It was several hours before I finally caught sight of my girl through the window and I hurried to set the plate of cookies onto the table. I smiled widely as the door opened but froze at the sight of her, hair wild from the wind, and eyes filled with unshed tears. 

I asked her what was wrong and she tried to pretend all was well, as though I didn’t have eyes to see,  and moved  over to Gealathe, picking him up and talking in that nonsense voice to him. “How’s my little angel today, huh?”

I called her out on trying to change the subject and frowned as I moved to stand behind her and placed my hands on her shoulders turning her to face me. After a little persuasion she told me. They were closing the Breach. Tomorrow. But that was good news, unless… she was worried about her safety or the people. So I asked about the Nightingale’s orders.

My girl couldn’t look me in the eye as she nodded, I went over to the fireplace and poured her some of the tea I had made to go along with the cookies. After I set it down in front of her, i asked the real question. “Do you worry about people's safety or your own?”

“Both.” Her voice was barely a whisper, it sounded so wrong in my ears to belong to my vibrant girl. My heart ached to give her the comfort she needed, so I fetched my mother’s necklace, safely tucked away in the chest under my bed. Even when I was close to starving I hadn’t had the will to sell it.

I told her about my mother as I slipped it around her neck. How the necklace was supposed to have a protection ward. I never believed it but then again maybe it did, who was I to say? I held her as she broke down and cried. Strange her tears felt more of grief than fear.

My boy was late coming home. Late enough that my girl had already fallen asleep. He didn’t come inside, instead sitting on the small porch and staring at the sky, a bottle in his hands. I checked to make sure Gaelathe was asleep before I went out and sat next to him, close enough that the heat he radiated protected me from the cold. It seemed like at least an hour had passed before he spoke. 

“I wrote a letter, way back. Kept it with my will. Was askin’ her to sing at my funeral. I wanted my ashes to be buried under an oak tree.” He paused before snorting. “I was so sure I was gonna go before ‘er, that I never stopped to think of what I might do iffin she went first. Seemed impossible.”

So he was also worried about my girl surviving trying to close the breach.

“But now…” He stared at the sky before murmuring. “Like father like son, I guess.”

I felt a sudden grasp of dread as I realized what he was hinting at. I knew his father hadn’t lived long after his mother and… I reached out and took the untouched bottle from his hands, but he frowned at me. “Don’ drink that. It’s bad for the baby.”

He cared about us. I grasped that knowledge and I looked at him directly in his eyes. “I never stopped to wonder what would happen to Gaelathe if anything happened to me. I was too worried about surviving.”

He flinched before laughing ruefully. “Ah. You got me.” He ran a hand over his face and it sounded like he choked back a sob. “I- I promise that if anything happens to you, I’ll take care of him. Even… even if I don’ got Em anymore.” 

We were silent for another long while before I asked, “Is it truly that dire?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Em says it’ll be fine, and I gotta trust her. She knows what happens. But… I worry. Make sure you’re ready to go in the morning.”

We sat there most of the night just looking at the breach in the sky casting its eerie green glow over th e freshly fallen snow. When he finally went inside to sleep, I stood for a long time, watching over the pair. They carried so much grief close to their hearts. So much weight. But they protected, and they cared, and they loved. My girl turned uneasily in her sleep, her marked hand flopping out of the bed and glowing in the dark. Whatever god or being had marked her. Chosen her. She Saw, and what she saw said she would be alright.

I could not leave them alone. I would not leave them alone. 

I held their words to my chest like a shield. She said it would be fine, and I would stay and make sure they had a warm fire and a… a friend. 

A scout came to collect me and Gealathe to evacuate, but I confidently stated the Herald needed me to stay behind. He believed me and left. The day passed slowly, each moment dragged out by anxiety. There were several hours of commotion and bustle outside the cabin as people, goods, and animals were herded out of the city. After that, I could hear the bellowing voices of the Commander and of my boy as they organized the soldiers and mages. And then it was eerily quiet. I hummed to Gealathe as I sewed, trying to keep my own anxieties at bay. I felt a shock pass through the air and hurried to the window to see what had happened. The breach was closed. I smiled in relief and returned to my sewing. She had done it, and all was well, just as she had said. 

They returned and headed for directly for the chantry and the city was filled with the sound of soldiers moving and shouting. I managed to snag the attention of a soldier for news of my girl. She and my boy were both alive. He hurried off before I could get more detail, but I was satisfied.

It wasn’t until night fell and the alarm bells rang out that I realized something was wrong. Deeply wrong. Fire rained from the sky with an unearthly shriek and I saw the tavern go up in flames. Creators help us. I gathered up Gelathe, wrapping him securely in his warmest clothes and blanket. But then I stood in the middle of the cabin, at a loss for what to do. I could hear screams and fighting outside, but buildings were going up in flames around me. There was a lull in the sounds of fighting, and I crept to the door, Gealathe clutched to my chest as I tried to get a sense of what was going on. 

I peered out the door just as my world exploded into pain and fire. I screamed at the pain that ravaged my senses. I could hear Gealathe wailing and the shred of my mind not screaming was grateful he still lived, tightly protected against my chest. I struggled, every moment an agony as I crawled from the burning wreckage of my home and into the frigid snow.

My world narrowed to pain, fire, cold, and keeping Gealathe clutched against my chest as I crawled through the snow. Each breath was an agony, each movement felt like the last of my strength until I could move no more, my skin numb from the cold. I fell, unable to move another inch, my limbs unwilling to respond to my will for one more inch. Gealathe wailed beneath me, my ears ringing with pain and the fear in his voice. And then- Bless the Creators. My girl. She rolled me over but I could not move, could not speak, couldn’t beg her to get my son to safety, to leave me and save him. 

She cried, sobbed, but grabbed my son with desperate hands and  _ ran. _

He would be saved. He would be saved and loved. All was well.

The world rumbled and rang about me, ice numbing me till I slipped into darkness. 


	5. Abelas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for dysfunctional thought patterns?

Abelas had known for millennia that his duty was drawing to a close, that eventually, he would be left without purpose. Each time they awakened, there were fewer of them, and the temple was further overgrown. Eventually, whether it be decades or centuries, there would be too few left and he would have to destroy the Well to protect it from desecration. 

His duty would end and he would be purposeless. If his mistress was kind, she would allow him uthenera. 

They were being invaded yet again, desecrators who sang with tainted Titan’s blood and killed all they met. There were others, but they walked the Penitent’s path, respectful and bearing the herald of the Meddler. He watched them, wary and dutiful, tasting the flavor of The Dread Wolf’s magic, faint and mingled with another’s ginger-chamomile magic. A healer’s aura. Strange. And next to the healer's aura, the cinnamon-clove of a guardian.

They finished the Penitent’s path quickly, shockingly quickly, the Healer practically running through them as if she knew them by heart. And when he confronted them at the end, to find their connection to the desecrators, he felt the Will of Mythal settle over him as his eyes landed on the healer bearing the Wolf’s magic. She was to drink from the Well. 

Leal’sa. A tiny human woman, but he could see why the spirits named her so. Her magic shone so brightly it was visible to all. Worthy. 

The Guardian was a Horned One, giant and bearing the colors of the Meddler. He spoke as the leader, all deferring to him as he spoke respectfully and politely and… The Will of Mythal sang. If not her, then him. Leal’sa or Amelan. Either were to drink. He sent them with a guide to the sanctum and continued to watch. His duty was drawing to an end.

His purpose drew closer to its end with each step they took forward. They fought the desecrators and protected the Sentinels, expending incredible amounts of energy to heal the fallen. He heard Leal’sa whisper an apology in his own language to the Sentinel she had healed, apologizing for not healing him completely even though she had saved him from death after healing six others. Her power was astounding, nothing like he’d seen since the days of Arlathan.

They were triumphant, as could only be expected from the magic singing about them, and he approached after they had felled their quarry, the Will of Mythal urging him to prompt them to drink. “You have found who you seek. You now stand in the inner sanctum of Mythal.” 

“Yes, Thank you. I’m sorry for trespassing.” Guardian spoke quietly and sincerely as he bound his quarry. Bright One watched him with a head tilt, as if he was somehow familiar to her, and the dark haired shemlen watched him with open suspicion as she guarded Guardian’s exposed back. 

He turned to Leal’sa. “And now… you have a choice.”

“You’re not trying to keep us away from it?” Her voice sang with confusion and her magic sent out distressed wisps of ginger-chamomile. The invitation had unsettled her. 

“That is not my decision to make, Leal’sa.” He spoke quietly, feeling the weight of his purpose against his spirit, and she startled as he turned and gestured to the Well. “As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years, They would pass their knowledge on, through this. All that we were, all that we knew, is yours to do with what you will.” 

She and the Guardian looked at each other, magic singing between them as if they were using it to communicate before he looked up with gold tinted eyes. “I grieve for you, but we don’t want it. We cannot take it.”

A witch, a mere shadow of a mage next to Leal’sa and Amelan, argued, respectfully, that they needed the Well, but Amelan was firm. He did not want anyone under his command to take the well, as if Purpose was something to protect them from. He would be unmoved, but it mattered little. The Will of Mythal was to convince the Bright One to partake.

“If you do not take the Well, Corypheus will, and everything you have accomplished has come to nought.”

She shook her head, her eyes flickering with her silver magic. She was wary, and confused. “No, he won't. You know how to destroy it. I know you do. You should have tried before we even got this far.”

Abelas bowed his head slightly in concession. Were it not for the Will of Mythal, that is what he would have done when it became apparent they would make it this far. “What I would do or have done matters little. The decision is not mine and I am restrained from touching the Well in any way. The choice is left in your hands.” 

The Guardian growled and threw out his hand and magic, the air shrieking with the force of his Will and the protests of his companions before it collided with the protections around the Well. The clash of magic threw them back and Abelas was… perturbed to see the protections so weakened. Another attack like that and it might just fall. 

He watched as the companions argued and scolded Amelan, and the elf helped him to his feet, concern tinting the air as he reminded Amelan that his mana was low. 

Low? How powerful was the Guardian?

This was going nowhere. The Will of Mythal urged him to act, to convince, to force their hand, but Amelan spoke of their urgency on their own and Leal’sa turned horrified eyes onto him, making him want to shrink from the betrayed sheen of them. But he remained still. She spoke in the tongue of the Elvhen. “She desires this, wants me.” 

Amelan bared his teeth, the air singing with cinnamon-clove and rage and then Amelan and Leal’sa and the elf were arguing, shouting over each other, their magic flaring and spiking in fear and protectiveness of each other. The elf pulled Guardian away from the well and turned on him, his eyes flashing with a familiar mint and green magic that had been cloaked.

Fen’Harel.

Here.

Ordering him to destroy his purpose. “ _ You _ of all, should know that is beyond my power.”

Fen’Harel. Amelan. Leal’sa. Something was shifting in the threads of the world. He pushed aside the premonition as the three argued as equals, but his lapse of attention allowed the shadow of a witch to take the Well. 

So much happened in the span of a distracted breath. The witch took the well and the Will of Mythal burned for his failure and before he could catch his breath from the punishment, he was being dragged through the eluvian and into a space that sang with Fen’Harel and Leal’sa and Amelan’s magic, and he almost choked on the strange, unfamiliar scents soaked into the stones. Millenia he had spent in the shadow of Mythal’s power and it was… gone. 

The Dread Wolf had him by the throat, his magic sharp and furious against his skin as he snarled. “You tell her, The Bright One is mine.” 

Amelan pulled Fen’Harel away from his throat and he heard the two arguing as he caught his breath, feeling his heart race in panic as his lungs tried to adjust to the new magics smothering him. Ginger-chamomile-mint-cinnamon-clove-iceandfireandlightning-

Leal’sa spoke soothingly to the pair and set the Vessel down, and her tone helped him refocus on what was going on around him. Perhaps… perhaps he could return to the temple to sleep. His duty was gone. His purpose ended. The guardian picked up his quarry as if the weight meant nothing despite his weariness, giving orders. The protector might allow him to return. He could not carry Fen’Harel’s message unless they sent him back.

The dark haired elf was staring at him as he spoke. 

“And what of me, Amelan?”

The giant stopped and glanced at him with gold eyes, before he looked at the dark haired human. “Room and guard. Nothing he could hurt himself with. I’ll deal with that tomorrow.” 

He was not to be allowed to return. 

The dark colored elf took his arm and led him away from the impassable eluvian. He did not resist. There was no point. He had failed. His purpose was ended. And Amelan and the Dread Wolf were furious at Mythal’s desire for Leal’sa. He could taste the mint lightning and cinnamon-clove ice of their rage at Mythal as he was led away. 

He was Mythal’s. A convenient focus.

He was stripped of his armor and locked him in a bare room, no windows or furnishings beyond a simple cot and hearth to bring warmth. 

A prisoner of Fen’Harel and Amelan. He did not expect them to be merciful in their rage. 

There was no way to count the passage of time in the room. He could hear footsteps outside the door occasionally, the breath of the guards outside, but nothing to tell how long they kept him in here. It felt as just a night had passed before he felt the creeping, frigid anger of Amelan approaching, shadowed by the sharp wrath of Fen’Harel. 

He knelt in the center of the room and bowed his head properly, accepting of his fate. Mythal had tried to take their Leal’sa, and he would pay for Her action, as was his duty. Her Will would keep him, help him bear any pain, and even the Elvhen could not stand too prolonged a torture. He could endure until he was freed from life. 

Amelan’s rage seemed to fog the air with the cinnamon-clove and ice, and frost spilled from his mouth as he spoke. “Get up. Please.” 

The words were clipped, a command, but… please? He realized he had not obeyed immediately in his confusion and stood, keeping his hands behind his back and his head bowed as was proper when in the presence of a Lord. 

“Do you know why Mythal wanted Leal’sa?” Amelan’s magic dripped with disgust and anger. 

An interrogation then. But the Will of Mythal did not want him to speak of Her desires, so he was silent. Fen’Harel suggested he might be bound to silence, and immediately he felt Amelan’s intent picking through his aura… Mythal help him. Amelan could see his magic, could read his intent and aura and… no matter. He would endure. 

“What does she want with Emma.” 

His silence was required. He felt Amelan’s disgust and anger grow.

“Did you ask for the vallaslin?”

It mattered not if he answered, so he gave it. “No one asks. We are selected and blessed upon birth.”

He felt Amelan’s rage rush towards him and braced himself for a blow, but instead Mythal’s Will was grasped and pulled and- Pala, it hurt! It felt as if he was being torn apart, freezing and tearing and strangled until Amelan’s rage receded with a flare of triumph and he was left sobbing on the floor, feeling exposed and alone, agony spiralling through his aura. 

Mythal’s Will. Gone. Ripped from his aura and leaving a wound, like a chain that had been tied to a young tree and removed years later after the trunk had grown around it. His aura ached with loss and pain. What was he to do now? He could not endure without Her Will, could not take comfort in duty. He was vulnerable and at their mercy. 

The dark haired elf reached for him and he flinched, still curled around the raw pain in his being. The elf’s aura inspected him lightly before retreating. “He is intact. Hurting, but intact.” 

Dread. He had not wept since he was but a child, but they had brought him to tears of agony without ever injuring him. They… they could punish and torture him until his mind broke, without fear of losing him to injury. The Dread Wolf reached for him, his magic washing across his skin as he murmured. “Now you are free.” 

Mythal’s Will was gone. Her mark was gone. They had torn him from Her possession without effort. The stones smelled of mint and ginger-chamomile and cinnamon-clove. Their magic. He struggled to his knees, but could not help but curl around the agony of his bruised aura, the shaking of his voice as he asked what They intended to do with him now that he was Theirs. 

“Ask questions. Mythal tried to trap my sister, and I need to know why.” Amelan’s voice was soft as he started the interrogation anew, an auditory reminder that he did not have to strike him to cause agony. 

”I do not know.” would they believe him? Would they assume he lied? He explained, hoping his sincerity would be enough to avoid punishment for his answer. “I served. I did not ask why.” 

Abelas felt both Fen’Harel and Amelan’s magic searching him, sorting through his aura with frightening exactness before they withdrew, satisfied. He saw Amelan move his hands and Fen’Harel spoke, his voice no longer sharp with anger. “You are no longer bound. What will you do now?”

What would he do? Was this a test? They had taken him from Mythal’s temple, had stripped Mythal’s Will and Mythal’s mark from him. He was Theirs. They had taken him, a price for Mythal’s actions. He looked up at them. “I believe that is up to you, ma’tarlin.” 

Amelan’s aura spiked with disgust and Abelas flinched. Had he overstepped by daring to look at them? He did not have Their Will yet, he could not read what They wanted from him. 

“If you are not a threat to me or mine, you are free to choose. Either to stay in Skyhold, or to leave, though if you leave you will not be able to find your way back.”

Was that a threat? A command? Instruction? He kept his eyes down and tried to sort through the words around the agony in his being. All certainty from before was gone with Her . Amelan and Fen’Harel left the room, putting up a privacy spell between them as they spoke. Abelas could feel the dark haired elf watching him as he worked through the Guardian’s words. It was… a threat? If he did not endanger Amelan or his people, he could… choose? Between being cast out or serving. It was an easy choice. To serve, to have purpose, to have duty, was better than to be cast out alone and in unfamiliar places, without purpose. 

He would serve. 

As if summoned by his decision, the pair returned, their auras settled and masked as Fen’Harel approached. “Stand. What do you prefer to be called?” 

He stood, relieved at the clear command, at being allowed to serve. Amelan’s aura felt disgusted again and he hesitated before giving the Dread Wolf his name. “Abelas.” 

“What are your specializations?”

This he could answer easily and well. He felt Amelan’s approval from across the room as he listed his skills, and it was a small comfort that his new lord did not find him without merit.

“Would you impart your knowledge to others? Is this agreeable to you?” Fen’Harel asked and Abelas caught a small thread of question from the Dread Wolf to the Guardian. He was… deferring to him. The thought was frightening. Amelan was strange and had unknown customs and expectations and if he was the highest lord… 

He remembered he had been asked a question, had been offered a position of honor despite the newness of his service. He had served Mythal for centuries before he had been allowed to teach. “Yes, ma’tarlin.” 

Approval from both of them as Fen’Harel spoke. “You will report to the Commander of the Inquisition upon his return. Until then you shall rest, regain your strength, learn the ways of the Inquisition. Is there anything you desire? A bath? Meal?”

He felt filthy, the smell of battle and the touch of other’s magics clinging to him, but… a bath was luxury… 

Amelan’s aura wisped with decision. “The Inquisition’s ideals include cleanliness and health. I do not want anyone under my roof to deprive themselves and risk injuring their health.”

He was under Amelan’s roof and bound to His ideals. Cleanliness and Health. Two ideals he could strive for while he learned of the others hinted at. “I would bathe.” He waited for their reaction and was rewarded with approval from them both, and a touch on the shoulder from Fen’Harel. 

“You will do well here.” 

He would do well here. A command and praise wrapped into a single sentence. He felt Amelan’s eyes on him as the dark haired elf ordered him to follow and began to lead him away from the room. 

The elf was obviously one of his lords’ but he was unsure which. Or both. The hierarchy was confusing and unclear, and there was no vallaslin to impart belonging or which was more powerful. If the elf leading him was of a similar rank, he could ask questions, beg help. But if he was blessed, was favored, he must not offend him. He bore the scent of Leal’sa, Fen’Harel, and Amelan’s magics equally with his own. He was obviously of importance, but Abelas needed to know who he belonged to now, how things worked. The elf must have sensed his confusion because he began to speak.

“I am Banal’ras. The one you call Amelan is the leader of this place. He is referred to as Ser Damon or Inquisitor. His sister, Leal’sa, is known as the Herald, and her voice holds nearly the same power as his. She is referred to as Lady Emma, though she may ask you to call her something else depending on how she thinks of you.”

Of course. Lady Mine was… somehow softer than a formal ‘My Lady’, a blending of elvhen and shemlen titles that fit her unique powers. 

Banal’ras opened a door for them to pass through. “Fen’Harel is bonded to Lady Emma, and he is to be referred to as Ser Solas only. No-one is to know of Fen’Harel. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” Odd, but clear. The Dread Wolf had bonded? Bonded The Bright One?

“Ser Solas acts as Inquisitor Damon’s Arcane Advisor on his board of councillors. Spymaster Leliana runs the scouts and spies, Ambassador Josephine takes care of diplomacy and contracts, and Commander Cullen heads the army.”

Commander Cullen would be overseeing him in his new duties. So Amelan was the highest ranking lord here. He listened intently as Banal’ras gifted him with useful information.

“Seeker Cassandra, the dark haired woman with the scar… you’ll recognize her by the dragon tooth necklace. She is engaged to Ser Damon. Seeker Cassandra, Ser Damon, Lady Emma, and Ser Solas have several children together, and it would probably be best if you avoided them until you have earned Ser Damon’s trust. There are various other members of their family, but you will learn of them by their proximity to Lady Emma or Ser Damon.”

He did not have time to process the fact that The Dread Wolf had children… several… with several people, before Banal’ras opened a door and gestured for him to enter. He obeyed and found a small, sparsely furnished room. A bed, a wardrobe, a small table, brazier, and washstand. A small window let in sunlight and air. “These will be your quarters.”

“Not the barracks?” He was… shocked, to say the least. He was untried, unbound. To be given a duty of such importance and his own quarters… They must consider him a prize, taken from Mythal as repayment. 

“You are to be the soldiers’ trainer, not a soldier.” Banal’ras stayed outside of the room. “You are allowed to come and go from your room as you wish, you may lock and ward it as you wish, and you do not have to allow entrance to anybody if you do not wish. Ser Damon is adamant that people have their privacy when they need it. You may mark the door if you wish to be able to find it easier.” 

A list of allowances, easy to follow. He pressed his hand to the door and set the touch of his aura into it, wincing at the raw pain in his being from where… Ser Damon had torn away Mythal's Will. The door now carried the mark of his own magic, he would be able to find it easily. 

Banal’ras began walking again and he followed. The dark haired elf led the way to a public bathing area, each tub screened off by curtains for privacy. An unusual luxury for servants quarters. "You may use these as often as you wish. No-one is to touch you if you do not desire it, and you are expected to defend yourself from  _ any _ unwanted touch and then report the assailant to one of the councillors so they can be dealt with." 

The elf gave him a long look and Abelas nodded his understanding. He was relieved with the command. He had not had to endure such attention since before he was lifted to Mythal’s Sentinel. 

"Any grab at a qunari's horn or an elf’s ear is considered assault and should be reported, as should anybody who uses the terms 'ox-man' or 'knife-ear'." Banal’ras looked at him and waited for him to nod again. When he did, the elf continued. “Would you prefer I waited outside to finish guiding you, or would you rather explore by yourself and get your bearings? You will be able to sense the areas you are not allowed by the… extreme magical signatures.” 

Abelas did not relish the thought of being left to walk the Guardian’s den without guidance, but Banal’ras had been more than helpful and he surely had other duties to attend to. He had been with both Leal’sa and Fen’Harel and was obviously higher in the rankings. He could not keep him from his purpose for his own comfort. “I will manage by myself.” 

Banal’ras nodded. “If you are hungry, you may either find the mess hall for the soldiers, or you may go directly to the kitchens. The head cook, Ilaan, will give you food fit for you. She will demand a password, and yours is ‘I’m one of the Inquisitor’s strays’. You are less likely to find trouble there.”

A subtle way of suggesting he avoid the mess hall. He inclined his head to show he understood and Banal’ras dug into his pockets before coming up with a round piece of stone embossed with the image of a silver and a black wolf howling at three moons over a green sapling. A crest of some kind. The elf held it out to him. “Use this to procure clothing, books, whatever you require. The cost will be reported to Ser Damon so he will know that you are caring for yourself adequately.”

A unique way of keeping an eye on him. He accepted the crest, then hesitated, unsure of his allowance to question. 

“You may always ask for help or question.” Banal’ras said. “If not me, any of the Three, or Ilaan, or any other who you feel might have an answer for you.”

The Three must be Fen’Harel, Leal’sa, and Amelan. He tried to find a respectful way to ask what he needed to know. “Ame- Ser Damon, he… felt disgusted with me. May I ask what I did so I may avoid it in the future?”

Banal’ras studied him for a long moment before straightening his spine. “Ser Damon does not like to see bowed heads or kneeling. He prefers to see the people under his care to be proud, strong, and healthy.” He inclined his head slightly. “Happy, if possible.” 

“Ma serannas.” Cleanliness and Health. Proud. Strong. A… good image to reflect on his masters. A prize worthy of being shown. Amelan had felt pleased with his skills, had given him a task where he would be visible to many. A… symbol of the ease with which he had wrested the captain of Mythal's Sentinels from her. 

They would mark him as Theirs soon. Would it fill the aching gaping his aura? Would it give him his clarity back? How much stronger would those bonds be with three?

He pondered these questions while Banal’ras showed him the workings of the glyphs for the baths and left him after a sincere, "All will be well."

And then he was alone.

He bathed methodically, scrubbing the scent of battle and Amelan's magic from him, though the latter would surely be renewed shortly. He found himself washing his soiled clothes and dried them with a painful reach of his magic. He dressed, made sure his hair was… presentable. He could not help but notice his hands were shaking.

Strong. Healthy. Proud. Clean. 

He kept his composure till he had found the way back to the room assigned to him, then everything fell apart. He didn’t even make it to the bed, his legs shook so badly he collapsed to his knees on the floor, his aura torn and sore. He tried to stand but couldn’t manage to make his limbs obey, instead curling over the empty pain in his magic. His breath felt as ragged as his being, each frantic inhale heavy with the aftertaste of the magics of The Three. Everything he knew was gone, his purpose changed and unknown. He had no Will to guide him, little knowledge of what was expected of him. Alone. Pained. Uncertain. 

How long he knelt there in that pathetic state he was unsure before a knock at the door made him instinctively shove everything away from him and wrestle control of himself. Strong. Healthy. Proud. Clean.

He stood, forcing himself to stand straight and still before answering the knock. A small elf, one of the quickling ones with the markings of June upon her face, but without his Will, looked up at him with a polite smile, a covered tray in her hands.

“Hello, I am Rogasha. You did not show up for the evening meal and I was asked to deliver your food if you did not feel like eating with others.” She held up the tray in illustration and he caught the scent of a meat broth as well as a trace of mint-lightning. Fen’Harel’s magic. It was coming from a bracelet on her wrist, a leather bond with six red beads, and his magic in them. She was marked as His, then. One of his many eyes. 

Rejection of the meal would likely displease him. He accepted the tray with a grateful tilt of his head and she grinned cheerfully. “Well, I’m usually around the forge during the day, and hanging around the castle in the evenings. You can find me if you have any questions or need anything. I’ve been the new guy before, and it isn’t fun. See you around… uh, just realized I didn’t get your name.” 

“Abelas.” 

“Oof. Rough name.” She winced before shrugging. “Farewell, Abelas. See you around.” 

He watched her leave, noting the easy way she looked around, the casualness with which she walked. She was comfortable here. Probably higher in the rankings of servants. She turned the corner and he retreated back to the room assigned him, setting the tray on the little table and uncovering it. He had not eaten in… a long time, subsisting instead on the Fade. He would attempt to eat what he had been given, but his stomach turned at the thought. Fortunately, it was just the broth he had smelled. 

Slow sips, waiting between each one for his stomach to acclimate. While he attempted to drink, he examined the crest Banal’ras had given to him, trying to pick apart the meaning. The black wolf was obviously Fen’Harel. The Silver one Amelan? Leal’sa the tree? She was a healer. The moons were obviously the three of Them. It was less stylized than the marks he was familiar with… but then he had never seen three lords share a mark before either. He could not figure out how it would set upon one’s face. 

He would find out soon enough. The bowl was empty and his stomach felt heavy and his aura still ached. He found himself… exhausted by the events of the day. So much had changed in so little time. From Mythal’s trusted Sentinel to… a prize of The Three. He knew he should not feel humiliated, but the thought of being a trophy, a spoil of war, twisted his gut. He had worked hard to prove his worth, to rise in the ranks, to be trusted. But now it was gone, wasted millennia. He shoved those thoughts away as he laid down on the bed. The blankets were soft and smelled faintly of soap. 

Strong. Healthy. Proud. Clean.

  
  


He found himself at a loss again when he woke, the early morning sunlight from the window shining directly onto his face. The bed had no doubt been positioned for just that purpose. He combed out his hair and rebraided it, made sure he was presentable before exiting the room. He was allowed to explore and gain his bearings. No doubt he would need to know the layout of the fortress. 

There were few people about, mostly servants that all seemed to have a certain casualness about them as if they were in no hurry. There was no cloud of urgency among them, no fear or dread. He’d seen one human running, but they left a wake of eagerness, not desperation. The servants were… happy, exchanging polite head nods with him and each other as they went about their tasks. 

The scent of The Three’s magics grew stronger when he found his way into the main building, and he shied away from the door by the entrance that practically dripped with Fen’Harel’s magic. Servants passed through it without hesitation, but he would not trespass into the Dread Wolf’s haunt. Instead he turned to the door that smelled of food and mingled magics. Servants ran in and out of it with trays, most likely it was the kitchen. 

He had been told to find the kitchens, and he would need to get accustomed to eating again. He entered and stepped to the side, out of the way of the bustle as he looked around. Mages were heating ovens and others were summoning and melting ice into water. Cooks were working over stoves and counters and over it all was a quickling elf woman, bellowing orders and keeping things running smoothly and efficiently. She spotted him quickly and frowned, stomping towards him in curious irritation.

“You have a password?”

Ah. This must be Ilaan. “I am one of the Inquisitor’s strays?” What a… humbling passphrase.

Her face cleared and she nodded. “I’ll get you something. Go wash your hands before you touch anything. There’s a corner over there for you lot.” 

He found himself moving before he realized and washed his hands in the basin she pointed at, but the elf from before, Rogasha, frowned and stopped him as she hurried through. “You have to use soap. Wet, lather, scrub for fifteen heartbeats, then rinse.”

He must have looked confused because she gave him a lopsided smile. “Inquisitor’s orders. He’s a stickler for cleanliness. Says it prevents plagues. I’ll show you.” She began demonstrating as she talked. “Wash your hands before you touch food and after you piss. Wash your hands before and after touching a wound. Wash your hands when you blow your nose or touch anything suspect. Wash your hands before touching a baby and after shaking hands with strangers.” 

That was a lot of handwashing. Perhaps the quicklings fell ill easily, and that fed paranoia. He stayed silent and committed the instructions to memory as she continued speaking while he mimicked the exact, thorough way she had washed her hands. 

“Bathe at minimum every other day, but daily is best. Brush your teeth twice a day, there’s a class in the gardens every new moon to explain all that if you prefer not to ask someone to show you. Door knobs and anything you touch regularly in your room should be washed once a week with soap and water, but the servants do that if you don’t ward your room against them. Clothes changed and washed daily, bed clothes washed weekly. There’s a hamper in your room for soiled clothes and the servants will collect and return it. If your room’s warded, just set it outside the door and they’ll leave it there when they’re done.” She grinned at him and shrugged. “Like I said, Inquisitor likes things clean. You should have heard him roaring at the healers. Took them all to Lady Emma’s Micro Sight Machine to show them the invisible creatures that cause infection and illness and fired anybody who refused to follow the rules.”

Fired? He had burned the healers that didn’t- He ran through the extensive list of rules through his head again, ensuring he had them committed to memory. Cleanliness was  _ very _ important. No wonder Amelan had felt pleased when he asked for a bath. 

Hands, apparently, correctly washed, they were called back by Ilaan. “Out of my kitchen, Rogasha. One of your pups will be in here after you if you don’t.” Rogasha ducked her head with a grin and ran. Ilaan turned to him and held out a bowl. “Eggs and porridge. Easy on your stomach, there’s tea if you want it, coffee if you need something to dull your sense of smell. It’s bitter though.” 

He took the bowl with thanks and sat on a bench she directed him into. Without magic, it was hard to read these quicklings. He tried to listen in on the gossip swirling around the kitchen, picking through the chatter to try and glean information on the inner workings of Skyhold. 

Ser Solas and the Inquisitor had gotten drunk yesterday and had gone to Ser Damon’s room with both Lady E mma and Seeker Cassandra and had not exited for hours. The Witch of the Wilds was working with Lady Emma’s sister on something secretive, they need more ink. That dratted bird of the Inquisitor’s has been stealing unattended cups of coffee. Ser Damon had brought home more elves, he sure is fond of them. One of the scouts had wandered outside the boundary and it had taken a week to find them and bring them back. Someone’s sister had requested to join the University and had been accepted. The soldiers would not be back for weeks, one would miss their child’s birth.

A cup of tea and a dark, bitter smelling liquid was set in front of him. Coffee. He sniffed it curiously and blinked at the strong scent that seemed to cling to his nose. Ah, that is what she meant by dulling his sense of smell. He tried a small sip, and it was horribly bitter, but clung to his tongue and nose, dulling the tangled scents of the kitchen and magic. It would help him grow accustomed to the new magical signatures. 

He managed to finish the food served to him and the coffee and his stomach felt heavy and uneasy. A fabric bundle and a jar was set in front of him by Ilaan. “Lunch and coffee for when that wears off. Out of my kitchen until supper.” 

He took the offered items and allowed himself to be herded out a different door than he had come in. Ilaan was obviously high in the rankings. 

He wandered the halls and paths of Skyhold, committing it’s layout to memory as he moved throughout it. He was never stopped, guards let him pass without question, servants would look him over occasionally, some of them smiling, others moving on without notice. He found the tailor, and with Rogasha’s warnings in mind, used the crest to procure several changes of clothing, enduring the woman’s measuring without complaint.

And then he wandered again. He felt… purposeless. The training grounds were all but empty, so he tried to content himself with running through drills. The movements had long since sunk into the memory of his muscles, a litany of purpose and duty under Mythal, but he found no comfort in them as he would before. The only purpose it seemed to serve was to tire his body while his spirit remained restless and uncertain.

At one point he saw a trio of children pass by, a young horned one and a human mageling with a quickling elf child holding their hands between them. The Three’s magic hung around them thickly and a pair of human guards eyed him sharply. A quickling elf, their nurse perhaps, was watching the elf child take their wobbling steps. The human mage was speaking in careful elvhen to the small child, a simple story that sounded like a translation of some sort, fondness and concentration wisping around her. These must be The Three’s children.

He stepped aside, careful not to get too close to them, but the movement attracted the horned child’s eyes. The child looked at him carefully, his expression curious but guarded before he smiled, the expression pulled crooked by the vivid scar that ran from the child’s collarbone to his cheek. Abelas bowed his head respectfully and the child’s smile faded into a disappointed expression before he looked away, apparently dismissing Abelas from his notice.

Proud. Strong. Healthy. Clean. 

Amelan did not like to see bowing, and his son must not either. He felt an overwhelming sense of failure at having disappointing the little lord after only a heartbeat of meeting. Without clear instructions to his aura it was harder to be sure what was expected. He would do better. 

  
  
  
  


Days passed in the same manner. His aura slowly began to adjust to being without Her Will, though it still ached with loss and uncertainty. He was directionless, left to his own devices, though Banal’ras would come by his room occasionally to observe him, making sure he was healthy. Rogasha began to show up more frequently, her face concerned when she first saw him before it was hidden behind her easy smile. She chattered, explained, and guided, always visibly happy to answer questions. One day she showed up with a babe that carried the strong scents of cinnamon-clove, mint, ginger-chamomile, and a new honey-grass. He shied away uncertainly from the child, at her question explaining that Banal’ras had ordered him to stay away from The Three’s children.

“Oh, no, this isn’t one of theirs, this is my nephew. Well, I mean, he’s half Ser Damon’s, his godchild, but no, this is my sister’s kid.” She shrugged. 

“He… carries their magic.” 

“Oh, my sister is the wetnurse for Lady Emma’s daughters. Legolas here spends a lot of time around them, uh, 'milk brother' I think Ser Damon called him." She pointed at the child with her chin. "Want to hold him?"

Milk brother to Leal’sa's daughters and Amelan’s godchild. He shook his head, unwilling to stretch the line of Banal’ras' instructions as well as uncomfortable at the thought of holding the small child. "Ar tel." 

"Suit yourself." Oddly, she looked pleased with him, though she was blank, no emotion or intent lending depth to her words. Perhaps it had been a test, to see if he would follow commands without Their Will to bind him to Them.

That thought stayed with him, slowly turning and forming into a… an idea of what was desired from him. None of The Three’s followers were bound to Their Will. None. Perhaps… perhaps what They wanted was service by choice. For one to follow their duty, not because Their Will ensured it, but… because they chose to. Perhaps They did not bind Their people to Their Will because They wanted to know they served out of… devotion and loyalty. It was strange, but The Three’s Will was powerful enough to bind entire armies, and yet They did not. Instead They asked him to choose: Serve, or be cast out.

Perhaps They considered service by choice more true, the duty and purpose that much more important by the fact that he could stray from it, or choose to abide by it. 

It was a flawed thought, one that invited rebellion among the ranks, but one supported by what he observed. A wet nurse was trusted and exalted higher than a captain, simply because… she was loyal. A cook could order about anyone who wandered into her domain, because she was adamant in her Purpose. According to the rumors, Amelan’s son’s guard was trusted and lifted to the honored position, not for his skill or length of service, but because he had willingly offered and dedicated himself to that Purpose. 

He hesitantly added a new ideal to his mantra. Strong. Healthy. Proud. Clean. And… Loyal.

He had been running through his drills yet again when he felt he was being watched. He paused and looked around, and then down to find a small quickling elf child watching him intently. The child’s hair was slicked back with grease of some sort, and they had a red shirt tied around their shoulders like a cape. The child’s spine straightened when he saw he had been noticed and he held out a napkin containing a fruit pie, a treat reserved for lords and nobles. 

“Would you teach me the sword?” The child offered the pie. “I can keep bringin’ these if you do.” 

He had never taught one so young. “Do you have a sword?”

“No. The round ears say I’m too small to learn and won’t let me train with their kids. But I seen Ser Solas and Ser Shadow use swords, and a lot of the scouts. I think they’re just keeping me out cuz I got pointed ears.” The child was still earnestly holding out the pie. “But you got pointed ears like me, and use a sword. You can teach me.”

He went to the armory and found the practice swords, sorting through till he found one small enough for the child, who was still holding the pie out when he returned. “I do not need payment.”

“Tacitacal bribe.” The child said solemnly. “Dani says that the best way to get what you want is to find what they want. I wanna learn to use a sword, you… well everyone likes pie. If you don’t I’ll find something else you want.” 

What a strange child. He took the pie, because he felt if he did not the child would keep holding it out until his arm began to shake, and set it aside and let himself fall into the familiar patterns of teaching. He had trained so many, all of them much older than the quickling child, but hardly any as determined or eager. The child hung on his every word, repeating the most basic of drills over and over again until his tiny body was shaking with exhaustion, and then he would set his jaw and narrow his eyes and do it  _ again, _ forcing his young muscles through the exercise through sheer will. 

Abelas called a halt to the session at that point and the child immediately tried to stand at attention despite his shaking legs and ragged breaths. “I can do better! I’ll get stronger, I promise!”

“Da’lin, you did well. Rest, eat as much as you can tonight, plenty of meats if you are allowed. It will feed your muscles.” Abelas pried the practice sword from the child’s grip and sent a painful brush of healing magic into the blisters on his hands, not enough to remove the forming calluses, but enough to avoid bleeding. “If you are able, soak in a hot bath to ease the aches. Sleep. Tomorrow you may return.” 

The child looked up at him with near worshipful eyes. “I will! Eat, rest, hot bath. I’ll be back as soon as I finish my lessons tomorrow!”

Abelas watched him hobble away on trembling legs and wondered if that is what They desired. Thousands of years he had trained and taught, but never had he taught someone so… Purposed. The child chose to learn, had not been selected for the training, had in fact been dissuaded from it, but he had chosen, and that choice gave him a… fire, the ability to push through pain and exhaustion despite his tender age. 

He would be a fierce warrior, Purposed.

Fen’Harel had asked him to teach. He had not thought it was an actual choice, but now… He had been offered a choice, to see where his Purpose would lead him, where his Duty would best Serve. ‘Happy, if possible’, Banal’ras had said. Content and driven, no matter the duty. Ilaan reigned in her kitchen, Rogasha loved her forge, the child was fervent for the sword. All were considered… important. The ranking not by the honor of the duty, but with the devotion which it was followed. 

He had been asked to teach. Could he be content in that duty? Find purpose without Their Will to guide him?

He was determined to try.

He found himself more settled the next day, less lost in his purpose. He had been asked to teach, and he would do so to his best ability. He would find contentment in that duty, would prove his devotion to service. He still did not have the certainty of Their Will, but this would be his Purpose until given a new one. 

The child returned, tossing a small bag with books and papers aside and holding out another pie. He had barely managed to finish eating the first, his stomach unused to the richness of the treat despite the luxurious sweetness his tongue delighted in. He had not had such a rarity before, honey and sugar too expensive to waste on mere servants. It was… pleasant. He found himself fond of it.

He accepted the offering and the child was just as eager as the day before, gamely following instructions through stretches to keep his muscles from binding or tearing and promising to perform them each morning despite the inevitable discomfort. He did not push the child so hard this day, and sent him away with the same instructions as the day before, feeling... satisfied with the proud tilt of the child’s shoulders and his excited promise to return tomorrow. 

He set the practice swords back in their racks, feeling slightly less unsettled. He was not training soldiers but the act of teaching alone soothed his bruised aura.

He felt Him approaching, the cinnamon-clove of his magic announcing his approach long before he became visible. Abelas waited by the armory for his lord to pass by. Amelan was walking with the horned child, three young wolves walking about them as their guard. His eyes roamed over the training yard, but did not notice him and Abelas caught a hint of disappointment as he spoke to his son. 

“Sorry, bud, I don’t know if we have anyone still around to help you. I’m not great with the swords.”

But he was skilled with the swords. He could help the child, prove his worth, could help. The child slumped, then looked at him with narrowed eyes, and Amelan looked at him as well, silver and white eyes peering into his intent. He started to bow his head, then remembered that was not what they wished. He lifted his chin and was rewarded with approval from Amelan as he offered his service. He could teach, could prove his usefulness. His… loyalty. They had claimed him and he would serve. 

The little lord tugged on his father’s sleeve and rubbed his chest with his hand. Amelan hesitated, but looked at him, His magic picking through his intent carefully. "Sure, bud. Abelas, this is my son, Ash, and my cubs, Hel, Fenrir, and Jormungandr. We normally run hunting drills combined with Ash’s sword drills. Do you know how to work with wolves or canines?”

He reflexively started to bow his head at being addressed by his lord, and mentally scolded himself as he stopped the motion and answered. He had trained his- had trained war hounds for Mythal before. 

“Awesome.” Amelan’s pride was almost blinding in its intensity.

He had pleased him, both with his knowledge and by refusing to bow his head. He asked the little lord if he had a sword, and the child was eager when he presented a finely made practice blade, the symbol of a horned wolf etched into it by someone with wintergreen-lavender magic. Just as before with the elf child, it was soothing, calming, to teach, to train. The little lord was eager, and the wolves followed Amelan’s intent and commands as if tethered to his Will. One of the wolves, the one with brown eyes, kept veering out of her place when they turned and he was uncertain of his allowance to point it out. He was not the Hound Master, but… if not corrected the flaw would cause, if not the wolf harm, then its handler. To not point it out would be a failing in his training but to speak may invite wrath from his lord. He carefully, respectfully, pointed out the weakness and again, Amelan’s pride was tangible as he  _ thanked _ him and corrected the wolf. 

Strong. Healthy. Proud. Clean. Loyal.

The little lord ran to his father and moved his hands rapidly and Amelan sighed in fake exasperation, though his magic sang with fond excitement and then he… summoned a great war ax, gold as his magic, the scent of cold cinnamon-clove dripping from it as he called the weapon into existence as easily as breathing. 

He realized he had been staring when Amelan looked at him and shifted, unsure if he had overstepped or offended, but his lord simply asked if it was alright for Him to join the exercise, that the little lord desired it. He was… asking? To be trained by him? He hesitated, why would he trust a newly acquired prize to train him? 

Amelan was waiting for his answer, so he gave it, and again Amelan felt proud of him.

“Great. I haven’t fought with the cubs before, so don’t worry about insultin’ me. I’m new at it.” 

The child moved his hands again with a grin and Amelan laughed and messed the child’s hair, making him duck away with a hoarse noise.

“And hard to insult.” Amelan felt amused and fond. 

It was reassurance and Abelas accepted it, stepping into the role of his lord’s trainer. His lord had many bad habits, all of them the mark of someone who had taught themselves to fight with little training, but accepted each instruction gracefully and without irritation. The joy from his lords was infectious and it was difficult not to get carried away in it. The pair revelled in the mock battle, sharp teeth bared in excited grins and Amelan’s aura singing with excitement and… catharsis. 

The little lord called a halt to the training by collapsing in a heap on top of one of the wolves and Amelan’s aura was scented with relief and happiness as he dispelled the ax and looked at him with a bright smile. “Thank you. You’re really good at teaching.”

The praise was welcome and unsettling. Had the training been a test? To see if he was able to do as he had claimed? Had Amelan desired to see if he truly was performing his Purpose? He thanked his lord for the praise and was turning to ask the little lord to put up his blade when a flash of silvery white caught his eye and he froze when he saw a massive white lioness stalking towards them.

He stepped in front of the little lord, ready to defend the child, but the wolves were not reacting. Perhaps it was a beast of His? Amelan whirled to face the lioness just as it pounced and Abelas felt a frisson of terror at the realization he had not called out a warning to his lord. 

The lioness turned out to be Leal’sa and Amelan’s aura sang with pride and wonder as he gushed over her form. Abelas quietly tried to rein in his panic at not having warned his lord from the perceived threat, but they did not seem to notice or care at his lapse. 

The little lord embraced Leal’sa tightly enough to squeeze the air from her and moved his hands in obvious excitement as she watched with love and happiness. She looked up at him and smiled, her aura grateful and excited and fond and overwhelming in the eagerness with which she addressed him. “Abelas! It’s good to see you. I’m glad you decided to stick around! Thank you for helping Ash. He’s really happy.”

It was difficult to keep his composure in the face of her unrestrained emotion, and her happiness only grew brighter when he offered praise of the little lord. She smiled and he found himself… wanting to earn that approval again, but then she asked him to call her his. Banal’ras had said she would ask him to call her something besides ‘Lady Mine’ depending on how she thought of him, but to call her _ his _ ? What would Fen’Harel do if he obeyed her and called her such? What would she do if he disobeyed? It felt like a trap which he could not avoid no matter which way he went. 

Amelan stepped in, speaking gently in the elvhen tongue, telling her of his discomfort with calling her his. Her aura felt confused and she let out a quiet, “oh.” 

The pair stared at each other, magic travelling between them rapidly until Leal’sa’s aura spiked with bitter horror and Abelas could not hide his flinch in the face of her unrestrained disgust. He barely kept himself from falling to his knees at her angered, “No!” 

The magic wove between Them some more and then Leal’sa radiated understanding as she explained that “mine” was her name, and that it meant something different in her language. She offered him the choice of what to call her, but expressed discomfort with the title of ‘lady’. What was he to do? It was not his place to choose a name for Her. She did not wish the title of ‘lady’ but he was Hers, he could not show disrespect with a second name.

The little lord moved his hands with a tired but mischievous grin and Amelan translated, offering different names that Leal’sa was called by those around her. Princess. A name that made her face scrunch in displeasure, but a fond, amused displeasure and she did not protest it. 

He asked for her permission to call her such, and she smiled again as she gave it, bright and free with her approval. Princess. Princess Mine. 

The little lord touched his chin with his fingers and brought them down, and Leal’sa said that it meant ‘thank you’, and that he could go to Her if he wished to learn the language of signs. 

Amelan clasped his shoulder, the heat of his hand and the scent of his magic sinking through the fabric of his tunic as he radiated pride and reassurance as he expressed his gratitude for the training. Leal’sa’s Ginger-Chamomile mingled with Amelan’s Cinnamon-Clove till he could hardly take a breath without breathing in their magic and approval and fondness for each other. 

Abelas found himself feeling dazed as the three of them departed, overwhelmed with the scent and power of Their magic, of the attention and approval. He had not been noticed often by his previous mistress, had just had her Will to direct him and his superiors to communicate information to those who needed it. Even as the captain of her Sentinels he had not often had more than a brief dream or message. 

But The Three… They saw him and spoke to him. They touched him and smiled and gave Their pride and approval as often as, if not more than, Their disappointment. Their attention was a heavy, overwhelming thing, emotions open and clinging to the spaces around Them as if there was no room for anything beyond Their Will. 

It was a heady thing, to breathe and know They were proud of him, were pleased with his skills and service, to have seen him perform his duty and purpose. They had  _ noticed _ and were pleased and something in him settled at the knowledge that he was fulfilling Their Will.

Strong. Healthy. Proud. Clean. Loyal.

He may be Their prize, but he was also Their Trainer. His Purpose was to teach and he could find contentment in that… happiness even.


	6. Fan Art of Emma by SillyLeaf




	7. Art by SillyLeaf!




End file.
